


Namárië

by Vidicon666



Series: Vows and Consequences [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:30:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2517587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vidicon666/pseuds/Vidicon666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Battle of Dagorlad is not starting well. Then two legends of the Elder Days appear. But the worst is not over and after the battle a horrific discovery is made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: 
> 
> This is not a crossover story. I may one day write a LotR Buffy cross, but this isn’t it. This is pure Silmarillion/Hobbit/LotR. I do not own The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion or the Hobbit, and only lay minor claim on the OC’s herein depicted. 
> 
> I should also warn that there is a lot of darkness, heartache and pain in this story and the series as a whole. (If you ever read the Silmarillion or the appendices to The Lord of the Rings this should not surprise you.)
> 
> This is the book, and not the movie verse. I must also warn that though once upon a time I was a pretty fair ardalogist, I’m no longer quite as detail driven as I was then. I also will change things to fit the tale and on occasion make a decision with which interpretation of a character to go if Tolkien didn’t leave a clear decision on it. 
> 
> (Which is me-speak for saying that yes, the Glorfindel of Rivendel is the same as the Glorfindel of Gondolin.) 
> 
> Namárië means something like lament, farewell and blessing in Quenya. Galadriel’s song when the Fellowship leaves Lothlórien is a Namárië. 
> 
> This is a sequel to the four Grief shorts published here before.
> 
> %Is used for telepathic communication between elves% This may annoy some people.

Namárië

Chapter one: Dagorlad

The battle was not going well. The armies of elves and men and dwarves had taken up position on the field opposing the forces of Sauron, but there was dissent among them, dissent among the Eldar especially. Oropher and Mardír had violently disagreed when asked to subordinate themselves and their people to the strategies and councils of Gil-galad. Elrond, Herald of the High King, was worried. Dissension within the ranks had caused the downfall of many armies in his lifetime, more even in the histories with which he was familiar. 

And the opposing armies were to be feared. They might not be as numerous and filled with beings of power as the battles in the days before his birth, but then the numbers and the strength of the Elves and Men had declined as well. The mighty Dwarven host under Durin was a great comfort to him, not the least by knowing that all the free people were united in this final struggle, hopefully the last to be fought against the Great Enemy or his minions. 

He knew Gil-galad was a mighty warrior and he was himself born of a high house, but only Galadriel remained of the noble Noldor who had come across the sea from Valinor and Celeborn was the last of the Noble Teleri. Only the fact that no dragons or Balrogs opposed them allowed him to hope. But the sheer numbers of the Enemy brought fear to his heart and the dark creations of Sauron were frightening enough to men and elves both. 

He had taken up his position on a hill slightly forward of the main lines, to allow the banners and trumpet calls that Gil-galad needed to direct his forces to be seen, his Herald’s Guard surrounding him. A messenger ran from the main lines to his position, clad in a russet brown cloak and rough leggings wound thickly around his lower legs and with a great bow on his back, obviously a sylvan elf from the forces of Amdír or Oropher. Elrond worried about those lightly armoured forces, worried too about the anger he had felt in the kings, who felt that they were not taken seriously by the men of Westernesse and the High King of the Noldor. The messenger arrived at his lines and was quickly let through. Elrond waited for the messenger to speak to him, but the man merely pointed an arm in the direction of the enemy lines. 

The sound of drums started and from across the plain a terrible roar of orcs, trolls and men came; and the armies of the Dark surged forward, like a black wave of an angry sea. Gil-galad raised his banner and Elrond ordered the standard bearers to repeat the orders shown below it. And then the ground erupted around their position and a regiment of great mountain trolls, huge and scaled and grey, rose from the earth and assaulted the guards surrounding him and a cold fear tried to assault his heart as he saw one of the Nazgûl leading them. There were dozens of the trolls and his guard, though doughty and brave, would soon be cut down. The forces of the Alliance were too far away. Elrond knew himself to be lost and made ready to sell his life dearly. 

The trolls broke through his lines by sheer weight of numbers and bodies, despite the biting blades of his guard, three great trolls and the Nazgûl leader were almost upon him and he raised his sword and shield to meet them. The Nazgûl smote his shield with a huge mace and great force and one of the trolls chose that moment to beat down upon his sword, unbalancing him further. He fell to the ground, as the Nazgûl struck again, cold running up his arm from the blow. ‘So much for selling my hide dearly’. 

The thought flashed wryly through his mind and for some strange reason so did the face of a beautiful silvery haired maiden. The Nazgûl’s sword came down once more and was suddenly intercepted. He heard a heavy thud and he saw and felt the great troll chief go down. A towering form stood above him, sword and shield in hand, cloak thrown back, rough leggings bound around the lower legs hiding the greaves and poleyns of a suit of armour of a type Elrond had not seen since the days of Beleriand. 

The elf’s sword blazed with a deep blue light and from his eyes and form burst forth a great incandescent white fire. A great voice sounded from him, first in Quenya and then in Sindarin. “For the House of Finwë! Honour to the High King!” 

The Nazgûl flinched back before the light and the great sword slashed through the neck of another troll, then the elf stood in front of Elrond, holding back three trolls without any obvious effort. Elrond heard the voice in his mind. %Get up lad, I can’t hold them off alone for ever! No lazing about during battle.%

The voice froze him in place. His mind reeled at the touch so long gone, at the worry that obviously lay beneath the flippant remark. 

He did not respond or move and the voice came into his mind again, now really worried and obviously distressed. “Elrond? El are you wounded?” Despite the worry the elf found the chinks in the defences of two more trolls who went down in gurgling heaps.

Elrond took a deep breath and responded to the mind’s touch. “No. No I am alright.” He rose and took up his position on the front line, next to the new arrival who, now that he no longer needed to defend the prone Herald, began chopping down trolls in earnest, shouting encouragement at the guards, ordering the wounded moved back. His light had gone out as if it had never been there, but Elrond could not feel the presence of the Nazgûl. The creature must have fled before the wrath of the great Eldar. Elrond felt the voice in his head once more. 

%Elrond, move your force back to the main lines, I will hold them back here.%

The remark stirred something deep within Elrond: worry. %You will be surrounded! They will bear you down and kill you!% he thought at the other elf.

A wry chuckle sounded in his mind. %I doubt it is my fate to die on this battle field, but if I do, so be it. At least it will be for a worthy cause.%

Elrond was about to object again, but he noted that the Trolls’ attack had been broken, the loss of their leaders and the retreat of the ringwraith having disheartened them. %There will not be much of an attack to hold back.%

The older man looked after the fleeing double handful of trolls and the six dozen that lay dead around the hill. For the first time he spoke, a deep vibrant voice, yet curiously dead and lifeless. “True. But I cannot join the king’s lines. I will be there if you need me.” He pointed to the north east where the sylvan elves had broken line with the rest of the army and had stormed forward. A white light suddenly blazed among their lines, holding back the tide of darkness. “I must go help Maïtimo. Be well, Elrond son of Ëarendil and Elwing.”

Elrond look after the running form as he led his men, carrying and supporting their wounded, to the main lines before the orcs arrived. He whispered to himself as a tear ran down his cheek. “Be well, Makalaurë, my father.” 

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Oropher had fallen, Thranduil had seen it happen. He had been unable to help. Amdír’s banner had gone down and he knew that the king of Lorién was most likely also dead. His people would be mowed down. There were Nazgûl before them and his brave, bright people were falling; the orcish arrows were dealing great damage even before they even met the orcs in melee. Thranduil was aware of the deaths about him, feeling the ending of the life of every one of his people. And then there was a Noldo there. He had not thought that a Noldo was charging with them, yet here one was, bigger than any he had seen, even Gil-galad, his hair a bright auburn under his helm and with a shield tied to his right arm while in his left hand he wielded a huge sword, long and slim and deadly, easily of a size with Elendil’s great Narsil. Thranduil knew he had not met this man earlier, yet he felt like a great captain of the Noldor.

A terrible smile hovered around the Noldo’s lips as he hewed his way through rows of orcs, his very presence lending courage and support to the woodland elves. He stooped and raised a young elf, little more than a boy and placed him behind himself, shielding him from the arrows. He moved closer to Thranduil, the young elf behind him, still mowing orcs, sometimes ducking a blow from a troll before moving in to kill it smoothly. Thranduil had never seen anyone move with such deadly grace in combat, ever. Even Gil-galad, even Glorfindel did not fight with the utter confidence and skill that this man showed. 

A terrible light came up into the stranger’s eyes and his sword and whole body blazed with it. He stalked, slaying a half dozen orcs on his way there, up to the Nazgûl, who stood over Oropher’s body, gloating, ready to defile the fallen king and the evil thing seemed to quail. 

“Hello little spirit. I have slain balrogs and spat in the eye of your master when he was still Morgoth’s lapdog. Would you care to face me?” 

To Thranduil’s surprise the wraith edged back as the light from the elf struck it, almost seeming fearful. The elf grinned and strode forward. “Gothmog feared me, little wraith, little ghost of a little man. For I was considered great among the children of the Eldar. And far though I may have fallen, my arm is still strong enough and my spirit fierce enough to help rout the likes of you!”

The elf raised his huge sword and the wraith fled, followed by many of the orcs and foul men. As he turned towards Thranduil, the young king saw that the hand of the right, shield, arm was missing. His eyes widened in shock, his hands whitening as he strengthened the grip on sword and shield; he took an involuntary step backward from the man about whom he had heard so many terrible tales. The smile on the face of the auburn haired elf faded and Thranduil could see him hunker in on himself a little; knowing he had been recognized. 

The Noldo sheathed his sword and strode towards the body of Oropher, lifting the banner of the woodland king and held it aloft, shouting a curse towards the retreating orcs. He handed it to the young elf he had rescued, who still followed him like a shadow. Lifting the body next he carried it to Thranduil and placed it gently into his arms. “Take your men and as many of your fallen as you may, Oropherion. The orcs are fled but they may regroup soon and your people’s armour will not hold out their arrows.” 

Thranduil’s tears ran down his face as he held his father’s cooling body but the look he gave to the auburn haired elf was defiant, questioning. “Why? Why are you here?”

The tall elf had walked away and picked up Oropher’s weapons and placed them into the arms of a nearby warrior. “Enough of your people have died because of me. I would prevent any more deaths, if I had the power.” He did not look up as he spoke. A deep grief and despair sounded through in the words and Thranduil felt it in his heart and bones. 

Thranduil heaved a deep breath, gathering his father’s still body closer to his chest. “Thank you. Thank you for my people.”

The one handed elf gestured to the south, where the forces of Loriën were retreating, the banner of Amdír held high and his body carried by his son. Another tall elf in ancient armour stood and held ground there. “Take your people back to the main lines Thranduil, lest they suffer even worse losses.” 

Despite himself, Thranduil bowed his head at the commanding tone of voice. He turned and led his people back to the battle lines, seeing how the Noldor and the men strove to reach his people. He felt behind him the meeting of the two great brothers of a fallen house, holding their ground to cover his retreat, and for the first time in his life felt pity for the sons of Faënor. 

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The tide of darkness had shattered against the Herald’s guard and the reckless assault of the sylvan elves had led to fewer losses than Gil-galad had initially feared. But still the battle was not going well. The might of Sauron was greater than the forces of the Alliance had hoped. They would win, but the cost would be great, too few of the elves could hold their own against the dark might of the Nazgûl.

He wondered who had broken ranks among his household guard to go to the aid of the Woodland elves. It was a generous and courageous act, that had possibly saved hundreds of lives but he would have a firm word with them. His orders had been clear and the attack might have broken the discipline of the Noldor forces. He would have to devise a suitable punishment, to honour the bravery yet let his displeasure be known.

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It was dark in the tunnels, dark and warm. There was nothing in them but the smell of sulphur and the oppressive heat from the furnaces of the volcano. It was too far from the great magma vents for their glare to light the dark. But the thing that hid there had no use for it. Utterly black, bent almost double its eye sockets were weeping sores, tracks of blood and puss running down the burned and scarred cheeks. Its feet were devoid of toes, its hands shorn of fingers except for a single hacked off nub of flesh were once the fourth finger of the right hand had been. On the nub a dark and ugly iron ring had grown into the scar tissue, almost covering the metal in places. The thing muttered to itself incessantly, in a low growl, its tong split and slivered by cruel knives. Its ears had long been gone, its nose was nothing but a widely splayed rank piece of flesh. A rock was in the left hand and a rough piece of iron, little more than a sharpened bar, yet shining with a deadly light was in its right. It seemed to be looking for something. It gently put the rock down on the ground, patted it as if it were a small animal. Then it moved off into the tunnels.

The thing could not go fast, it was too broken for that, yet it moved with great purpose. Its crippled yet eerily silent steps held no hesitation due to fear. It had been a long time since the Thing had felt anything but anger and hate. Anger and hate towards its enemy were the only fuel its shivered husk seemed to require. It could no longer remember exactly it if had ever been different but it no longer mattered. Anger and hate was all it needed, vengeance on the one who had destroyed so much was the only thing It could still think of. Whatever beauty it had once known, whatever joy had once lain within had been excised as surely as its eyes. 

It felt its goal not far away and moved haltingly yet surely towards it on crippled, oft broken legs. It was silent now, its mutterings ceased, not even the slightest noise coming from its tortured and parched throat. It went deeper into the mountain and the heat increased, touching the pitted cheeks, the shattered nose. Yet unerringly it found its way. The vast room it found itself in was full of heat and the light of flowing, burning earth. Flames shot up out of the deep cracks but the black thing ignored them. The heat was no greater than before and it had no eyes to accustom to the change in light. It felt its enemy. There was nothing else. The thing felt nothing but elation. Its enemy had weakened itself. Its power was no longer whole, but split in two. If it could but just separate the two it would be far easier to destroy him than it would have thought. The power was on its right hand as well. Deep within it a smile blossomed, a smile that the lipless mouth could no longer form. A hand or finger would be easy to sever. 

With a sudden powerful movement of its bent and crooked legs it sprang forward, throwing itself at the form it could not see but only feel, the knife glowing brighter, but not as bright as the thing itself, a sudden terrible white light filled the foul smelling chamber. The knife came down with unstoppable force and the thing felt the powers separate. His enemy screamed. He could feel others there, but did not mind them. The mutilated hands grabbed the tall form in, its spiked armour no protection against the terrible anger that burned deep within the chest of the black Thing. It lifted the enemy, felt its weak struggles, futile struggles as he had lost his Power, and threw him, with all of its force, into the wide, burning chasm it could feel before it. A terrible scream, filled with anger and hate and fear rang from the enemy’s mouth before he struck the burning magma. The servants of his enemy fled, fearing the wrath of whatever had slain their master. The Thing shouted a guttural cry of joy and elation, lifting its knife, covered in burning, black blood to the sky that could be vaguely seen far above. The light within it went out. It doubled over again, wracked by terrible pain and shuffled back into the darkness.

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The armies of the Lords of the West stood at bay, the great hordes of the Enemy opposing them across the plain. Gil-galad stood next to his captains, his face stern and composed. “They are many, but so are we, and we are the more valiant and the better warriors.” He raised his arm, his spear glinting in the light of the sun. “WE WILL BE VICTORIOUS!” His voice rang out over the battlefield, carrying to the furthest part of the Alliance lines. The spear came down and the hundreds of bows came up, the steel bows of the Numenoréans glinting in the morning sun, the arrows of the elves glinting with deadly intent, the Herald’s guard once more ready to take the vanguard position. The arrows flew. 

The orcs charged, the great trolls in front, carrying a massive iron-plated shields to keep the arrows from striking the forces behind them. If they stood still, the elves would cut them to pieces. Gil-galad knew that after one more defeat they could begin the siege. Orcs did not have very high morale and even the Dark Lord knew that they would not fight well just out of fear for him. To be killed by an elf or bigger orc, after all, did not make much difference. The orcs charged, led by the nine wraiths, riding their black horses, flanked by the Numenoréans who had fallen to the darkness, their swords gleaming. And then the lines of orcs faltered and the trolls stumbled and the Ringwraiths screamed. In the distance Orodruin belched out a dark cloud and threw up a pillar of flame and gas. A great rumbling flowed over the massed ranks, the ground shook. Orcs and men and elves and dwarves stumbled and fell. The Wraiths spurred their horses and rode back to their lines, which parted and scattered, rode as fast as horseflesh could carry them to the black gates. 

And every being on the field knew that Sauron was no more. The Army of the West moved forward, bows singing, spears gleaming, swords shining. And before them the forces of the fallen Dark Lord scattered and fled. 

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The two men were covered in soot and grime, their gleaming armour splattered with blood and ash, their faces pale and drawn. The tallest of them, and he was very tall standing almost eight feet, spoke almost unbelievingly. He carried a shield in one hand a large sword in the other. “Eru! This mountain will tear itself apart. What in the Name of Manwë happened?” The next tallest, still very tall, hefted his shield above his head, allowing some ash and pumice to strike it instead of his helmeted head. “The Enemy is dead. I felt him fall. Something inside the mountain slew him.” 

The tallest snorted indecorously and sneezed out a load of ash. “And that I assume, is why we are a currently trying to get into a burning mountain? To see what killed him?” 

“I would feel better if I knew. Anything or anyone that can slay Sauron is worth knowing about. Elrond, Cirdan and your sons should be coming back soon. I feel that this road is the only one we can take.”

He pointed to the cracked and broken road that led over a widely bridged chasm into the depths of the mountain.

The tall one removed his helmet and put his sword into the sheath, scratching his head and running his hand through his lightly silvered dark hair. “Why did I just know you were going to say that?” He smiled wryly at his friend, his eyes crinkling. “Should we not go in together? It won’t be long before the road will be blocked.” 

His friend removed his helm as well, his long blonde locks falling free. “We might, but I would prefer to have some help.”

“So cautious Gil-galad?” 

“I have had enough nasty surprises during this war. And a single spear and a dwarven sword are hardly going to be enough. Why don’t you get another one, of elven make?” The elf winked.

The tall man drew himself up even taller addressing his friend in mock outrage. “I will have you know that Narsil is an heirloom of my house.” Then he shrugged. “Anyway, there are no elven smiths around who can match its craftsmanship.” He looked at his friend slyly.

Gil-galad laughed. “You are incorrigible. But you are right we should go in. Pretty soon the way into the mountain will be gone.” He looked at the mountain distastefully.

Sighing the blond elf settled his helmet back on his head. “You are right my friend, and maybe the others found their way inside in other ways. I just hope they can find their way out again.”

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The dark haired man watched the burning flumes of magma erupting from the cracks in the floor of the great cavern. An armless hand was crawling slowly away from the fire, encased in a black gauntlet, burning black blood dripping from the stump, hissing on the even hotter stone. A brightly shining golden ring with red hot letters was on it. He took a few swift steps forward, looking ready to kick the hand into the lava, then hesitated. Skewering the hand to the ground with his sword he knelt and drew his dagger, cut the ring finger off. Lifting the sword he swept the hand into the lava, swiftly drew the ring off and thrust it into his pouch and threw the finger after the hand. The tunnel he had entered through was blocked by falling stones and he turned towards the large tunnel behind him. He heard voices and peered through the ashy gloom. The voices spoke Quenya. He heard a thud and a clang and a curse and grinned. A chuckling light voice replied to the curse. 

“Maybe my friend if you cursed Eru a little less he would not let you bump your head so often.” 

“Maybe if I had not praised him so much as a child I would not have grown so big.”

The man by the chasm smiled at the fact they could banter even here. “Father? King Gil-galad?” 

“Isildur? Is that you my son?” 

“Indeed father. I just threw Sauron’s hand in the chasm. I did not see or meet anyone else.”

Gil-galad shook his helmeted head. “Something killed Sauron. That would not have been a simple thing to do. They cannot just have disappeared.” 

The younger man shrugged. “We did have to fight our way through a host of orcs and creatures of darkness to get here, disorganized though they were. Whoever slew Sauron may have left before we even got here.”

Gil-galad nodded. “True. And I would not blame them.” Watching a rockslide fall into the lava he sighed. “It would be wise to get out of this mountain as soon as possible. We had better go and see what poor wretches we may save from the dungeons Barad-Dûr.”

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Anárion was cursing as he walked through the ash rain, leaning sideways on the rocky slope of Orodruin. In front of him he heard laughter, not the harsh laughter of orcs, but the cruel laughter of men. He hurried forward. They were men of Gondor, tossing a stone from one to the other while a poor, bent and shattered creature followed it, crying in pain as its legs could not carry it fast enough from one soldier to the next to retrieve what it obviously felt to be a great treasure. Its poor whimpering cries tore at the southern king’s heart and rage rose within him.

“STOP!” Striding forward he caught the flying stone and in one smooth movement clasped the poor creature and gently placed the stone into its mutilated hands. Finely polished sandstone, he noted. He glared at his men. “Do you have no heart that you must torture one of the Enemy’s prisoners so, even after he has been freed? I am ashamed to be your king.” 

The men looked down in shame, unable to meet the King’s eye. The King waved his hand. “Go and see if you can find any more of these poor wretches, we must take care of them as best we can.”

The men bowed and filed of quickly, properly chastened by his anger. Anárion carefully looked over his new companion. The creature was dressed only in a single ragged cloth belt, nothing more needed for modesty, for it no longer had anything to hide, its manhood long ago having been removed. He stank of urine and faeces and blood. Tears of blood and grime ran down its face from eyeless sockets. A wave of deep pity flowed over Anárion at the sight of him. He cared not who this man might have been once, what, if anything, he might have done to end up like he had, no creature made by Eru’s hand deserved the fate that had been visited upon it. 

Gently leading him away he saw a rough knife on the ground, covered in black patches. Picking up the blade he tucked it in the belt of the creature, into the hole that obviously held it before. Placing his hand around the shuddering shoulders he walked down the mountain, to the camp that was being erected at its foot.

When he approached the camp he saw that the standards of his father and the High King of the Noldor had already been raised. He made his way to the location where the Healing tents would be ignoring the looks of pity and disgust the creature beside him evoked. He felt more than heard the presence of his brother and father, looking around him he saw the men exiting a great tent where the victims of the most recent battle were being treated. Gil-galad walked between them, the tall elf dwarfed by his human friend but of equal height with Isildur. 

The three saw him at the same time, their faces showing a mixture of horror, revulsion and pity. Gil-galad spoke first. “Elbereth! How can he be alive?” 

The creature turned its shaking head from rubbing the smooth sandstone and whispered in a slurred voice, lips gone and tongue sliced. 

“Elbreth.”

A shuddering sigh ran through the elven king. “One of my people. Come friend, we will care for you.” He took the elf’s shoulder from Anárion and led him into the tent, handing him over to the elven healers with a soft and unnecessary admonition to do their best.

Exiting the tent, shaking his head, he returned to the ruins of the black tower. There were many more poor wretches still in need of his aid. It would be many hours before any of them could sleep.

In the healing tents the tortured elf was stood in a tub of water and gently washed down. The healers removed the cloth belt and the knife but the elf refused to let go of the stone, running his fingerless hands over and around it again and again. After washing, the elf was still burned black and red, with horrible scar tissue visible and deep dirt engrained into its skin. No trace of hair remained. It was clear that he had once stood much taller, but that the breaking of every bone in his body at one time had reduced his height. Gentle Elven hands washed him and bandaged his few open wounds. The healers studied the hacked of finger and the ring grown into the flesh. The chief healer gently tried to remove the stone but the maimed hands clasped it firmly and the broken head shook in denial. He did not try again, merely lightly running his fingers along the remnants of the hands, assessing if anything was left to work with. He frowned at the ring again, but decided that nothing more could be done for the poor wretch and ordered him to be laid in a cot to sleep. Other victims were being brought in and hopefully he could do more for them than for the poor thing that lay clutching a piece of stone as if it was its life.

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They were seated at the high table, the leaders of the armies. Thranduil and Amdír were absent, still mourning their fallen fathers, still getting used to the fact they were now kings, still caring for their wounded. Almost a third of the forces of the sylvan elves had been wounded or killed. A fifth would never return to sing beneath the boughs of the trees. Gil-galad shuddered, guilt wracking him. If only he had been more diplomatic, more willing to compromise. The wood elves were a proud people and they held no great trust towards the Noldor, and they had good reason to mistrust, he had to admit. 

At least they had accepted the aid Gil-galad had offered, even if he had to send it through Elendil. He would have to see that they got better weapons and armour too, there were still many orcs at large, despite the fall of Sauron, and certainly the Greenwood held the offspring of Ungolianth. He drew in a breath and looked at his friends and captains. Gildor, his High standard bearer since the days of Nargothrond was sitting with his head in his hands, the only man in the host who bore the escutcheon of the House of Finrod. Elrond, his Herald was slumped in his chair, deeply in thought. Something had happened to Elrond. He knew there was more to the survival of the Herald and his guards than the man was telling, but no doubt he eventually would reveal whatever troubled him. Gil-galad looked at the faces around the table. 

“Tomorrow, when Galadriel arrives we shall see to the wounded that are beyond the skills of our healers. First we must rest.” Tired by their battles and the emotion of freeing the prisoners the leaders of the Armies of the West went to their tents to sleep and recover.

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When Galadriel, garbed in a simple white dress arrived at the High King’s tent the next morning she was received gravely by her grand-nephew and with restrained delight by her husband. The human Kings merely bowed their heads to her in greeting while Elrond and Cirdan bowed fully. Celeborn bestowed a small kiss on her hand before he sat her down at the table covered in fine linen.

“Good morning great-aunt Galadriel. “ Gil-galad, kept his face carefully blank and gave her an innocent smile while taking her hand. Galadriel sighed inwardly at the King’s delight in the appellation, born of a long ago conversation when he had been but a child. Yet she was eerily reminded of his grandfather by the twinkle in his eyes and could not find it within herself to reprove him, on this of all mornings. She inclined her head. “Your majesty. I trust you slept well?” In a mental aside to her grand-nephew she added %Without Foofoo?% referring to an old and ragged toy dog he’d had dragged to bed with him as an elfling.

Gil-galad smiled at her jest and raised a hand in welcome and surrender. Then he grew serious. “Galadriel, we know Sauron is dead. I feel his Ring still survives however. I do not know if it was taken, or lies in a deep crevasse on Orodruin. We do not know who slew Sauron, or what happened to the Ring. We may never find out. All we can do at this time is to empty Barad-Dûr of all its horrors and tortured prisoners, and give them what help and support we may.”

Galadriel nodded gravely. “Are there many survivors?”  
She could feel the tension in the men. 

Gil-galad nodded, deep grief brimming in his eyes. “More than we would like.” 

Closing her eyes briefly as she realized what he meant she briefly remembered the horrors of those released from the dungeons of Angband. Galadriel felt her hand carefully grasped by her husband’s and gently squeezed, all under the cover of the tablecloth that lay upon their knees. Squeezing in return in gratitude for his support she rose. 

“Then with your permission I will go see to them.” Gil-galad and the other men rose and bowed as she gracefully moved off, followed closely by Celeborn and Elrond and at a greater distance by the others.

As the group neared the tents of the Healers an unearthly keening became louder and louder, a noise of sorrow and mourning, of a heart utterly bereft of all comfort. Galadriel quickened her pace and Anárion, recognizing the sound from the night before, hurried to catch up. Inside the tent the tortured elf sat, held down on a folding stool by several healers as the Chief healer carefully rubbed his hands, and especially the stump of his finger, with salve. 

Only Celeborn saw the look of anguish that crossed his lady’s face as she set eyes upon the poor wreck that once had been an elf, before she strode purposefully towards the scene. 

“Are his hands so sensitive Amronoth?”

The Healer rose and shook his head. “No your majesty, the scar tissue is old and it is a miracle if he has any sensation in them at all. I fear I do not know what distresses him so.”

Anárion looked around, seeing the stone lying on the cot. “He wants his stone.”

The elven healer shrugged. “He would not let go of it. We had to take it from him, but it lies quite near.”

Galadriel sighed in exasperation, so softly that only her husband and Anárion, who were closest to her, could hear it. 

“Then we give it back. It would have been simple to place it on his lap Amronoth.” The healer looked slightly ashamed of himself as he realized her words were true.

Stepping over to the cot she grasped the stone and knelt before the crying man, placing the stone carefully in his reaching hands. The healer winced as her dress was befouled by the bodily excretions of the wretch which had drained from him into a puddle below the stool.

“My lady, your dress…”

Galadriel turned to him, eyes blazing. “It you think for one minute that any dress is worth the discomfort of this poor man for even a minute Amronoth, I would suggest you find a different calling!”

The creature made a gasping sound and the queen, rising and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, leant nearer to hear if he might be speaking. A few slurred sounds emerged from the toothless mouth, too soft to hear by any but Galadriel.

Galadriel staggered back from the sitting man, both her hands before her mouth, white as a sheet. Before even Celeborn could act she had collapsed on the floor in a dead faint.

When Galadriel awoke her dress and shift were gone, replaced by a clean nightgown. She was lying on a comfortable camp cot that smelled of her husband. She could hear him stir and feel his worried mind next to her, warmly supportive both on the physical and mental level. Her long slender fingers lay carefully cradled in his larger, sword roughened hand. She knew he was worried, never in their long marriage and acquaintance had she ever fainted. She took a deep shuddering breath but did not open her eyes. 

Celeborn squeezed her fingers lightly. “What happened my love? What did he say to you?”

A tremble ran through her body. “You did not harm him?” She asked anxiously.

“The poor wight? No beloved, he is sleeping on his cot in the healers’ tent.” 

She shuddered again. “Are any of Sauron’s jailors or torturers still alive?”

Celeborn blinked at the sudden change in subject. “A few. We are to execute them over the next couple of days, after questioning. We need to find out the names of as many of his victims as we possibly can. Why beloved?”

Galadriel opened her eyes and he looked into twin maelstroms of raging anger and grief, not the tranquil pools of sea grey he had long ago become used to. Her voice grated out of her throat in a way he had never heard before. “Give me your sword.”

Realizing immediately what she intended Celeborn loosened her hand and grasped her shoulders. “No Galadriel. You swore off the sword when we moved to Lindon. Please.”

She looked at him, eyes full of an unspeakable grief. “Beloved, what did he say?”

Gathering her closer he held her head to his shoulder, rubbing his hands across her head and back, murmuring sweet nothings. It had been very long since he had to give her comfort like this. He could feel her anguished sobs, felt the trickle of her tears through his thin linen shirt. 

“Artanis…” She shuddered violently.

“Beloved, I am sorry we should have told you. We knew he is a Noldo.”

She drew in a deep breath. “He said, Artanis, please don’t get your dress dirty, you know mother will blame me.”

Celeborn’s hands tightened on her shoulders as he realized what his wife meant. He whispered curses under his breath. “It can’t be beloved. You know all your brothers have been in the Halls of Mandos for an Age.”

“If only I could believe that to be true. If only those were not the words Ingoldo always spoke to me when I went out to play as a girl.”

Celeborn rose, gently pulling her up with him. “We must go see Gil-galad. He ought to be able to confirm it, if it is true.”

He helped her rise and held a dress out for her, lacing it up the back with the practiced ease of long marriage. Leading her out of the tent with his arm around her shoulders they made their way to Gil-galad’s tent. The High King sat at the large table outside, looking over documents, long lists of freed prisoners and slaves, fallen soldiers and captured goods. The king rose immediately when he saw them. “Galadriel.” Taking her hand he led her into the tent to grant them some privacy. He stepped closer to her, and looking permission to her husband, enfolded her in a hug. 

“How are you? Can you tell me what caused your faint?”

Galadriel gently pushed herself away from him. Her lips were firm but her eyes showed unshed tears. “Yes. He spoke words that make me think he is one of my brothers, most likely Ingoldo.”

Gil-galad looked at her with deep compassion. “Galadriel, Great Uncle Ingoldo died in Sauron’s dungeon saving Beren. Beren and Luthien buried him. Had he been alive, we would have known.”

She shook her head. “Nevertheless, I still believe it is him.” 

The king ran his hand through his golden hair. “Galadriel…Artanis… Would we not recognize his heart song if it were him? I knew him from a babe. I do not think I would not recognize him if I heard it again.”

Galadriel shuddered. “There may not be enough of Ingoldo left in that husk to allow us to hear it.”

Gil-galad looked at his herald. “Elrond? Your opinion?”

Elrond had looked momentarily stunned as Galadriel had announced her belief, but now he was pulling uneasily at his lower lip, a habit that only came upon him in times of greatest stress. “Before the battle, I would have said there was no chance for this to be Lord Finrod.” 

Gil-galad looked at him, a question in his eyes. “Before the battle? What do you mean?”

Elrond hesitated, then continued. “I spoke to Thranduil. When the forces of the Sylvan elves attacked a single Noldo appeared on their flank and managed to save a great many of them by covering their retreat after the fall of Oropher. A Noldo so powerful that the Nazgûl fled before him. Amroth says that another set himself between the Nazgûl and his forces.”

“That was one man? The way the Enemy’s line reacted I thought it had to be at least a squad.” Gil-galad looked thoughtful, his eyes flicking to a nearby tent. “Glorfindel? I thought he was on the right flank…” 

“No, he was with us the whole time. Thranduil described the Noldo as very tall, and with bright red hair.”

Galadriel looked at the young loremaster with surprise as the man continued hesitantly. “And only one hand. His right one had been replaced by a hand of mithril.”

“Maïtimo!” The name whispered from Galadriel’s shocked lips.

“Yes. And…” Elrond ran a weary hand over his eyes, suddenly brimming with tears. “And when I was separated from you, my king, and about to fall…” 

Gil-galad nodded, realizing his herald was about to reveal what had upset him. “You were rescued by an elf you did not recognize, yes you told me.”

Elrond’s breath shuddered from him. “I recognized him, sire. I just could not believe it was him, did not want to believe it was him.” His next words were whispered so softly they could barely be heard. “So desperately wished it was him…”

Elendil walked to his kinsman and clasped his arms with both his large hands. “Surely not…Makalaurë?”

Anguished eyes met his, and then furtively strayed to his king, shame set deep within them. “Yes. Makalaurë.”

Gil-galad ran a hand over his face. “Eru, Elrond, why did you not tell me before!”

“Because…I feared that…”

Galadriel voice was soft and understanding. “You feared Gil-galad’s reaction. You feared for Makalaurë.”

Elrond’s voice shook as he spoke. “He hewed his way through a line of trolls and covered my body with his as I gained my feet. He told me to get back to our lines, he would cover my retreat. I had to allow him a chance, an opportunity. I hoped he would come forward…” Tears were now pouring down his cheeks, and he fell to his knees before his king. “Forgive me, your majesty, for I allowed my feelings to interfere with your justice.”

Gil-galad stepped to his friend and raised him up. “Elrond, the Doom that lies upon those two is greater than any justice that I can mete out. And despite everything, he was once your father.”

Elrond ran his hand over his eyes, wiping away his tears. His usual reserve returned. “However, as those two fought on our side, and Maïtimo, despite what we thought we knew, was then still alive, King Ingoldo may be as well.”

Gil-galad raised an eyebrow. “King? Nargothrond is no more.” 

Elrond gave his liege a small smile. “But he would be the oldest eligible living male of the House of Finwë, and therefore High King of the Noldor.”

Galadriel smiled at Gil-galad’s stunned expression and Cirdan grinned. Celeborn developed a suspicious cough, while Elendil and his sons did nothing to hide their amusement, laughing heartily. The High king sighed. 

“I suppose with two legends of the First Age stomping around, it might be possible a third could yet live.” He looked at Galadriel. “Though I must admit I fervently hope it is not him.”

Galadriel straightened her shoulders and moved to stand next to her husband. “I agree. But fear and hope have little to do with reality, ofttimes.”

Gil-galad nodded. “Very well, let all those who remember Ingoldo go to the Healers’ Tents and see if we can settle this matter.” 

They were subdued as they moved towards the Healers’ tents. Each was locked into his own thoughts, hoping or fearing as they made their way through the neat camp. Two tall Men in the dress of Gondor stood before the door and inside more Men were busy helping with the wounded. Anárion, who had trailed the party of elves, was surprised to recognize many of those involved in the teasing of the poor elf the night he had found him. 

The group’s leader, a tall powerful man with a large dent in his forehead from an old wound looked up from where he had been rolling bandages and flushed slightly to see him, then bent his head back to his task. Anárion wondered when, and why, they had decided to offer their services here. He had not intended to punish them knowing that the shame that lay on them would be greater than any reprimand or duty he might impose, but it warmed his heart to see them tending to the victims of the Enemy. 

Those who knew Ingoldo best stood looking at the sleeping form under the light blanket. Gildor seemed frozen with a look of anguish on his face, but Gil-galad moved decisively to the left side of the bed, seated himself upon it and laid his ear on the man’s scarred chest. Almost reflexively the broken hand came up and gently fondled the King’s blonde curls, a murmur rumbling from the red and black pit of his mouth. 

Gil-galad’s eyes widened and he gently moved the hand, collapsed on his knees to the ground beside the bed and vomited up his breakfast in the wash bucket. Gildor was immediately beside him, holding his hair. The High King wiped his mouth with a pale and trembling hand. 

“It is him. Oh, Eru, it is him.” And the High king of the elves buried his face in his hands and burst into shattering sobs. 

 

The group gathered in Gil-galad’s tent included all the leaders of the host of the Alliance, except for the absence of Gildor. The former Captain of the Gates of Nargothrond had taken up station by his former king and refused to budge. The standard bearer sat motionless except for the tears running down his face, holding the shattered king’s maimed hand in his own slender if sword calloused ones.

None of those present was unaffected by the news. Elendil had placed the Ring of Barahir in front of him on the table and had been staring at it since then. His sons sat beside him, breathing heavily and occasionally swallowing. Gil-galad sat upon the high seat, with Thranduil and Amroth beside him. Celeborn and Galadriel did not sit at the table; the couple was seated on a small couch, which allowed Galadriel to gain as much comfort as possible from the presence of her husband. Elrond sat nursing a goblet of wine, once more pulling at his lower lip. Glorfindel twisted his long slender fingers around each other, seemingly wishing to strangle something. 

Durin, king of Khazad-dûm, who had been in charge of exploring the dungeons below the fallen Tower, was still covered in grime, dirt and ashes. Tear tracks were visible down his cheeks. The admiration and love of the dwarves for the king of Nargothrond had run deep and the realization that the Cave-Hewer was now a broken wreck had shocked many of the dwarves. In Durin’s treasury there still were jewels forged by the dwarf-friend, much admired for their beauty and gracious form. 

Suddenly Glorfindel spoke. “The only thing we can do is send him to the West. Only the Valar will be able to heal him.”

Galadriel sighed. “You are right. But we should do it slowly, let him acclimatize to being in the sun and the light.”

Gil-galad nodded. “We will move him to the Anduin and then through the Calenardhorn and in gentle stages to Lindon.”

Elendil rubbed his chin. “Or we could send a message to Cirdan’s people and have them send a ship to the mouths of the Anduin and use a boat to take Lord Ingoldo to the coast.” He looked at Cirdan who nodded that it was feasible

They pondered this. Gil-galad nodded decisively. “You are right. That will be easier on him. Can you send a message through the Palantiri?”

Elendil nodded. “Yes, the messenger can ride from Annuminas to the Havens. How long will one of your ships take to get to the Harlond, Cirdan?”

The old Teleri spoke, his deep sonorous voice soothing. “The currents and the winds are against us at the moment. It will take several weeks at the very least to get a ship ready and to the port. Enough time to get Lord Finrod down to the coast in easy stages.”

Gil-galad looked around the table. “Then we are agreed?”

Galadriel looked up from where her head had been resting on her husband’s shoulder. It was the most intimate any of those present save Gil-galad had ever seen them and Thranduil and Amroth had been surprised at the depth of emotion and feeling that could be seen between the two. 

“Yes. Yes, it must be so.” Galadriel smiled sadly. “But first let him feel the sun and the moon and the stars here, before he goes to the West.” She shivered. “And at the river mouth I will decide if I go with him. If the Valar will let me.”


	2. The Great River

“Well. We are still alive,” the taller, red-headed elf said as he lay on his back next to the small campfire. They had spent a lot of time hunting down the remnants of the armies of Sauron, deep into Mordor, unto the very walls of the Dark Tower. The iron gates of Barad-dûr had burst under their onslaught. Sauron’s servants had cowered before them and died in their hundreds. Then they had followed the shattered armies even further, moving faster than mortal men and orcs, slaying them. Now they had returned to the small glade they tended to use when camping in the vicinity of Dagorlad. They had used it as a base to spy on Sauron’s mounting power many times. 

“And unhurt,” he finished.

His brother glared at him. “Speak for yourself. I have not ached this much since…”

“Since that battle in Eregion,” Maedhros completed helpfully. 

“Eru, that was a mess too,” Maglor groaned.

“You have been getting soft my brother,” Maedhros teased. “No longer used to wearing your armour all the time.” 

“You are just jealous you can not get away with appearing openly as much as me,” Maglor retorted. “Carrot top.”

“Copper top, thank you very much,” Maedhros sniffed. “But I admit that it would be nice to talk to someone without it being dark. Or someone else but you and Her Ladyship.”

“Who is not going to be pleased,” Maglor sighed. “Well, I was not going to let Elrond be slain.”

“And I was not going to let those Silvan elves get killed either. I have enough blood on my hands that I do not want to have it on my conscience,” Maedhros shrugged. “I think it was about time we showed ourselves. We can do more this way.”

“Well, they knew I survived. Casting yourself into a volcano was hardly conducive to them thinking you were,” Maglor sat up and started to remove his armour. He winced as it caught on a bruise. 

“I was not exactly popular, you know. There were plenty of Teleri who would have gladly flayed me and fed me to a dragon after we took the Silmarils,” Maedhros reminded him as he started to remove his own armour. “We need to clean this.”

“No, really? I thought I was going to let all this orc blood stay on my armour as magnificent fashion statement,” Maglor muttered.

“You need to find a harp and play something. Your mood is terrible,” Maedhros said calmly.

“And where do you think I can find a harp around here?” Maglor glared. 

“You mean you are not carrying a harp? What do you have in that huge pack of useless stuff of yours then?” Maedhros had managed to remove his greave. “This was a lot easier when I still had a squire.”

“It was a lot easier when we both had two working hands,” Maglor grumbled. 

“At least Her Ladyship managed to do something about your hand. I still only have one that works,” Maedhros held up his mithril right hand.

“Yes, well. You were the one who thought going to treat with The Enemy was a smart idea,” Maglor sighed in relief as his breast- and backplates came off.

“Do you think we might be getting too old for this?” Maedhros asked.

“I think we are a lot older than anyone else around here,” his brother replied shortly. “The only ones I have met lately who are older are Fangorn and Iarwain.”

“So, you are saying that we are too old?” Maedhros pressed.

“We were too old for this when father decided that burning the ships was a good idea,” Maglor closed his eyes. “We were too old when we swore the Vow. We were old enough to know better.”

“Yes. I suppose we were. But not wise,” Maedhros sighed as he wriggled out of his last pieces of armour, leaned back against a tree and closed his eyes with a sigh.

There was a soft noise. A smile curved Maedhros’ lips. “I knew you had a harp.”

“Go and rest. I cannot manage it anyway,” Maglor muttered, as the sweet strains of an ancient song composed beneath the leaves of Telperion started to flow from the delicate strings.

Maedhros nodded and lay down on his bedroll. Maglor played, watching until his brother’s breathing slowed into reverie. He waited and played, then after an hour or so put his harp into its case and melted into the night.

Maedhros opened his eyes. “Maybe he will finally, actually talk to the boy this time, instead of spying from a distance,” he muttered and closed his eyes and resumed his repose.

***********************************************************

“Well? How was he?” Maedhros asked the next day as his brother stared morosely into the embers of their fire. 

Maglor glared at him. “What?”

“You and I both know that whenever you come within a hundred miles of Elrond you have a need to go see if he’s alright. Did you actually speak to him this time?”

Maglor glared and poked the embers with a stick.

“I take it that is a no,” Maedhros sighed. “Look, he has seen you now. He did not try to kill you immediately. Neither of us was shot in the back by archers. They may not have forgiven us, but maybe we can try and see if some of them might want to talk to us.”

“There was something going on. There was a lot of activity around the Healers’ Tents and little Nerwen looked like she’d seen a ghost…” Maglor’s voice trailed off. 

Maedhros looked at him. “We need to see what is going on.”

“Yes. But they seem to be on guard, it was not easy getting close,” Maglor replied tensely. 

“Brother dear, do you really think that after an Age or two of sneaking we cannot avoid a few Silvan elves and humans?” Maedhros smiled. 

“We could also see if anyone knows anything,” Maglor suggested. “After all, not everyone knows who we are.” 

**************************************************************

The camp was well set up and established according to standards conceived Ages ago, when the elves had previously laid siege to Angband. The guards were not only in the suggested positions, but irregular patrols were moving between them. The brothers had to wait until twilight set in, moving from shadow to shadow, seemingly becoming part of the trees and shrubs.

But when all was said and done, none of them had nearly the power or experience of the two surviving sons of Fëanor east of the Sea, which meant they had penetrated the ring of guards easily and were now wandering through the camp as unobtrusively as two elves of their size could. It helped that the weather was overcast and rainy and most of those in the camp wore a cloak, with the hoods thrown over their heads to shield themselves from the cold dampness, often shielding their faces from the sight of others as they did the same. 

“It seems to be quite busy in the healer's camp,” Maglor said to a tall Numenorean soldier. He was much better at modulating and altering his voice than his brother and was most often the one who spoke at those times they could not afford people wondering about their mellifluous voices. He offered a leather flask they had liberated from a supply tent.

The soldier took it after some thought and took a swig. “Fine stuff,” he gasped.

“Elven made,” Maglor smiled. “They need more and stronger stuff to get drunk.”

The soldier laughed and capped the flask again. “Better stop then, I am on duty in a glass.”

“Wise,” Maglor acknowledged. “We just came back from a patrol. What transpires in the Healers' Tents? Did they find more prisoners?”

The man gave him a long look. He had a scar on his forehead and looked tired and worn and there was deep guilt in his eyes. “No, this is about one they found earlier. I am surprised you have not heard.”

“We were on patrol searching for Orcs, locating pockets of resistance; quite far-ranging,” Maglor replied easily. It was what he would have done and he had taught Elrond a great deal. If the boy had not done so, he would have words with him. Well, maybe. He would contemplate what he would have said to him if he had not done it at any rate.

“Hmmm,” the man said. He seemed to consider them for a long time. “They say that legends walk among us. That Maglor and Maedhros were on the battlefield and saved hundreds, if not thousands, including the Lord Elrond. I would not put much store in such things, except for what I saw myself.”

“I had heard about it,” Maglor said non- committedly.

“I was there when they found out,” the man whispered. 

“And it hurts you,” Maglor stated. “You bear guilt about it.”

The man winced. “When we first found him, we... we tormented him. We thought he was an orc, terribly tortured by his vile master.” 

“And he was not?” Maglor sympathised. “I have seen his victims, often it is impossible to say what or who they once were.”

“He is an elf,” the Man whispered. “The High King.”

“The High King? But Gil-galad is fine. His banner is blowing,” Maglor looked over to where the commanders of the Host had their tents.

“No, not King Gil-galad,” the man shook his head. “His Great-Uncle. Queen Galadriel's eldest brother. Lord Finrod.”

Maglor gulped. “Ingoldo?”

The man nodded, as if something had just been confirmed for him. “Yes, he who forged the Ring of Barahir, who went with Luthien and Beren and fought Sauron. No one knows how he is still alive. He is...”

“Stubborn as a mule and stronger than anyone you will ever meet,” Maedhros said softly. Unlike his brother, his voice was clearly elven. “Are you sure?”

“Lady Galadriel and King Gil-galad both recognised his faë,” the man replied. “No one could recognize his body. We're going to organise an honour guard and make sure that he gets on a ship to the West. Hopefully they can help him there.” 

Maglor looked at Maedhros. “We must be going.”

“Please,” the man stepped towards them, hands outstretched. “Please, my lords. If you have any skill, any power… Please, I beg you, help him.”

Maedhros looked at him and then muttered something in Quenya before answering the man. “Tell our cousin not to rush the journey too much.”

The man started. “Your cousin?”

“Our little Nerwen. You know her as Lady Galadriel. Tell her... tell her that her old and foolish cousins beg her not to send him across that Sea, until we let her know, for his sake and the Lady's,” Maglor said quietly. “Come, Russandol. We must go to the Lady.”

The brothers nodded at the man and melted into the gathering darkness.

**************************************************************

“My Lady!” 

Galadriel turned at the unexpected call. The Man who had called to her was pale and looked shaken. She recognised him vaguely. Or maybe she had known an ancestor of his who had looked like him? She had to admit she was too distraught to tell.

“Yes?” she asked gently. 

Most of the Men of Numenor held her in high regard. She was among the oldest and most noble elves in Arda. She was quite likely to become the Queen of Lorién and Edhellond, now that Amdir was dead and Amroth had said he had no desire to rule for any length of time and wished to take such of his people as wanted to leave across the sea. But mostly they honoured her because of who her brother was, Finrod the Loyal.

Many of them came to her, asking for her advice, for blessings, to look at their sick children. This one looked as if he wanted to ask or say something and yet could not, or dared not.

“What do you need, soldier?” one of her guards asked, more brusque yet still polite.

The man took a deep breath. “I was approached by two men who wished to know what was going on in the Healers' Tents. They were taller than most and despite that the one who spoke most often twisted his voice; I know that they were Firstborn. My lady... My lady, they bade me tell you...” his brow creased as he tried to remember exactly. “Her old and foolish cousins beg her not to send him across that Sea until we let her know, for his sake and the Lady's.”

Galadriel gave him thoughtful look. “There have been rumours in the camp about Maedhros and Maglor. Are you certain it was not a joke perpetrated by some foolish youngsters?”

The man snorted. “My Lady, I am not that foolish or gullible. There is an air, a power around all of you who saw the Trees. These two had it. I cannot think that any of that age and power would make bad jests about such serious matters.”

“I see. What is your name, sir?” Galadriel asked.

“Galador, My Lady,” he bowed. 

“Did they say anything else?”

Galador looked a little sheepish. “They called you their little Nerwen. And the shorter one called the taller Russandol.”

Galadriel shook her head as her guards assumed that mien she knew meant they were trying very hard not to laugh. “Some things never change, no matter how many Ages pass,” She waved her guards aside. “Walk with me to the command tent, good Galador. I think that all there would hear what you have to say.”

Galador inclined his head. “As you command, My Lady.”

*************************************************************

The commanders were seated around the table once more, but with the Kings of Eryn Lasgalen and Lorien present this time. 

“Do you think it was them, Galadriel?” Celeborn asked his wife.

“It sounds like them. Offer strong drink, preferably purloined from another, to a soldier to get information out of him. So very much like my cousins,” Galadriel shook her head. “But I cannot understand why they think keeping Finrod here until they tell me otherwise would please Elbereth.”

“I must admit I can see no reason, either,” Gil-galad said with a slight frown. “Elrond?”

Elrond shook his head. “I cannot think of one. But Adar always expressed deep regret about what had happened to King Ingoldo, and the actions of his brothers. I cannot think of a reason why he would want him to suffer more.”

“So does that mean we do as they, or do we send Lord Finrod to the West as fast as we may?” Elendil asked.

“I say we wait,” Galadriel said after some thought. “We do not know what plans my cousins have, but I do not think they mean Ingoldo harm, or any of us.”

Gil-galad and Celeborn nodded. “We wait,” Gil-galad said. 

*************************************************************

Isildur knew he should not look at the ring. It still burned hot enough that he could feel it through his leather glove. And he knew that the more often he took it out of the mithril case he kept it in, the more likely it was that one of the elven lords or even worse, Galadriel, would sense it. 

But the Ring meant power. At least seven of the nine men who had become the Nazgûl had been good and lordly men of Númenor, born before the Sundering, wise and learned. Their stories were told in hushed voices, how they had been approached, granted the Nine Rings, had been corrupted by the influence of Sauron and this Ring. So much had been lost when Númenor fell. What if he could save them, bring them back from the dark? They had built and achieved great things before they fell. The foundations of Orthanc were rumoured to have been laid by one of them.

He had heard the tales told of them, and he thought that had they lived in his time, he could have admired them, in several cases even befriended them. They had been proud men, but honest and brave and true. He was sure that if he held the Ring that commanded their loyalties, he could somehow save them, or at least the immortal parts of them that would live forever. 

He was sure he could. He could almost feel the Ring telling him how to do it. None of the elves would consider using it. And if he saved them, the armies, the lands, the kingdoms they commanded would turn away from Sauron.

The Alliance might be known for defeating Sauron, but he, Isildur, would be the one to bring final peace to Middle Earth. And with the power of the Ring, he would live far longer than the few centuries that his ultimate forebear had bartered for. Looking at the grey in his father's hair and beard and seeing the eternally youthful face of Elrond, their ultimate uncle, once more drove home the mistake of that decision. Long, maybe eternal life lay enclosed in the Ring.

But to achieve all that he needed to get away from the Elves. He needed to master the Ring, and he could only do that in a place where he would not be disturbed. Happily the latest despatch riders from Annúminas had brought an excuse to part company with the Host.

The battle, the war itself, had ended suddenly, far sooner than expected with Sauron’s downfall. That meant that the reinforcements, units of men wounded in earlier skirmishes, men still in Arnor to hold back the armies of Mount Gundabad and Orcs roaming down from the Grey and Misty Mountains did not need to come to Dagorlad or Mordor and that their commanders had time to plot mischief. 

Companies of Men led by great powerful men, the great lords of Numenor who chafed at their 'bucolic condition', great lords who were unhappy that Elendil held the reins of power as tightly as he did. Not all the settlers on the coasts had been of the Faithful, not all who fled Ar-Pharazôn in his madness and vainglory had been of one faction. 

There had been nine great fleets that departed from falling Númenor, but there had been more ships that joined them later. From simple fishermen, to Lords out sailing, to those unwilling to join the mighty, yet utterly hubristic, expedition against Valinor, and who had taken ship at the last moment.

And for all the oaths they had sworn to his father, the Lords were not all loyal. His mother and his wife both wrote of whisperings in the Great Hall, of gatherings of nobles while the populace was cheering and celebrating the downfall of Sauron.

His father was needed in the South, but as his heir, it might be a good time for Isildur to make clear his strength and ability to rule by putting down the rebellion of the North. 

With a smile, Isildur placed the Ring back into the case and closed it. With a deep sigh he slipped it into the chest, which he locked and pushed under his camp bed. He would be back for it later, but he needed to talk to his father, and he was most likely with Gil-galad and Galadriel and the Lady was far too perceptive for Isildur’s peace of mind. 

**************************************************************

Elendil looked up from his reading, a fine illuminated version of the Lay of Leithian, as the flap of his tent was lifted. Only Gil-galad and his sons and grandsons had the right to do so, and they rarely did. 

He smiled at the sight of his son carrying a pile of letters, which explained why he had not knocked on the carved wooden slat by the door. “Letters from home, son?” 

Isildur nodded. “From mother, and one from Valandil. He wants me to get him a charger, and I intend to write that he can have a pony. Kindly do not give in and hand him Burandor.”

Elendil laughed. His former warhorse was a giant among the breed, fit to carry a man such as him, but certainly not his youngest grandson. “I will not, I promise, no matter how artfully he writes.”

Isildur put the letters on the table. “Lots of congratulations from various lords and nobles, praising us and our victories. It worries me, father.”

Elendil sent him a look. “Worries? Sit, take some wine. I shall read my letters, then we will talk.”

“Anarion will be here soon,” Isildur said, pouring and watering the wine. “I asked him to.”

Elendil sent his eldest son another look. Then he opened the letters from his family and read them quickly.

Anarion came in and quickly took his own letters, while Isildur read his again.

Elendil put the last letter down with a frown. “I see.” 

“Mother says they have not stood down their levies,” Anarion tapped his finger on a paragraph.

“Miriel says Lord Asalthin is even calling up more,” Isildur said soberly. “Father, she and Valandil are at Imladris still, and there might be some valid explanation for Asalthin raising more soldiers near the mountains, but mother is in Annúminas. There would not be need to keep such numbers under arms near the capital. Neither Orcs nor dark armies have ventured there in many a year.”

“You fear that they will rise in revolt and take hostages,” Elendil said grimly. “I agree.”

“Father, let me go back,” Isildur pleaded. “Give me a guard, two, three hundred, men strong in battle and fleet of foot. A handful of knights, loyal and true. We will go to Imladris, bring the news in person. I can take Míriel and Valandil and we can travel down the road, under the House Banner. The people-”

Elendil held up a hand. “You had me at 'Let me go back.' It is a good idea. Anárion?” 

The younger son grinned. “Well, I would like to see mother, but I have a kingdom over here to administer. With your permission father, I would like to ride south and see what the lords are up to around Osgiliath and along the coast.”

“Also wise,” Elendil chuckled. “I seem to have fathered two wise sons.”

“Yes, mother's influence is strong,” both his sons said at the same time. 

Elendil laughed. “Ah, I still think you two practiced that. Very well, make your preparations; I will talk to the other commanders. I believe Durin wants to send troops home as well, he worries about Orcs in the mountains.”

“If we can match our departure to his, we would have more strength, though I would prefer the pass over Hadhodrond, to travel through it. The horses do not like it underground,” Isildur mused. 

“Nor do you, brother dear,” Anárion smiled. “But passage through the ruins of Eregion would not be safe, sadly. To know such a beautiful and rich land is so reduced, it wounds my heart.”

“The place reminds me of a tomb,” Isildur admitted. “Though it is not as oppressive as the underground city of the Men of the Hills, with the lights and the lanterns and the Great Windows. It is still underground.”

“A dire and fearful place, too full of the memories of the Great Enemy and Sauron,” Anarion agreed. 

“I shall take your word for it, though I'm glad I never visited the place now. I do not much like underground places myself, no matter how well lit they might be,” Elendil admitted. “Make lists of what men and supplies you need. I prefer to keep a goodly number here to further cleanse the evils from around here.”

“Of course. It is our presence, not numbers, that will have to turn this tide,” Anarion agreed, then he frowned. “One thing...”

Isildur gave him a look. “You have that expression that you get when you are about to say something you think will upset someone.”

Anarion looked offended. “I do not have such an expression.”

“You do, my son, but only those who know you best recognise it,” Elendil smiled. “So tell us.”

“Isildur is your heir. He should be recognised as such,” Anarion said.

Elendil frowned. “I have, his name is on the Roll of Princes.”

“Father, you should lend him the Star of Andúnië and give him permission to bear the sceptre in Annúminas,” Anarion continued.

“Ah. A very good idea. I shall make him my official Regent. Your mother, of course, will advise you.”

“A very wise decision, father,” Anarion smiled.

“After so long a marriage, mother is obviously having an influence,” Isildur said.

“Rapscallions!” Elendil glared. “It will be good to be rid of you and get some peace!”

Then he laughed, and his sons with him.

************************************************************** 

The well-sprung carriage that drove along the Anduin, on the great road carved into the landscape by the might and skill of the Numenoreans, was accompanied by a company of knights and other doughty warriors of all the free races.

Foremost among them was an honour guard of elves, led by Gildor, former Captain and Keeper of the Gates of Nargothrond. They wore the livery of Finrod, High King of the Elves, but the banners were furled and their pennants wound around their spears in mourning, in spite of the great victory that had been won.

The current Regent, the former High King, Gil-galad, rode on a fine stallion, his expression sombre and thoughtful. “We are not making very good speed.”

“We could take part of the army ahead,” Elendil, riding a truly massive horse at his side replied. “And leave ourselves open to any attacks by whatever scattered forces of the Enemy’s remain. An excellent plan, for those without wits.”

“You are as cheerful as always,” Gil-galad muttered. “And as complimentary.”

“That is why you brought me along, to point out all those little things that you keep forgetting, like strategy,” Elendil grinned at him, then sobered. “I know you want to get Lord Finrod to the sea and the West as soon as you can. And that whatever Maedhros and Maglor are up to, it may not be to the benefit of Elves and Men. But we all feel we have to risk it.”

“I know. But every time I look at him…” Gil-galad shuddered as he looked over his shoulder. The canvas curtains had been drawn up and tied in rolls. The poor wretch that had once been Finrod had insisted and was basking in the sun, his poor mangled fingers stroking the limestone block he was so attached to. 

Not even the strictest orders could keep the men who accompanied him from looking at him with pity.

Elendil squinted at the soon. “We should stop for the noon meal. The infantry will be getting tired.”

“The dwarves, you mean?” Gil-galad said guilelessly.

“I heard that!” Durin yelled from a row back, where he was uncomfortably sitting on his pony.

The group laughed. Gil-galad looked at Elrond, who nodded and gave the order that the column would halt.

The wain stopped and Finrod looked about with blind eyes, then smiled a toothless smile and slid down, letting his feet play in the grass. Then he slowly made his way to the river, followed by Gildor.

Even a temporary camp to rest and feed an army as large as the one travelling along the banks of the Anduin took time to set up, and was seldom as well structured as the strategy manuals would have one think.

Groups of camp followers, women, even children, wandered about. There was a small hamlet on the bank of the river, with a rope-guided ferry. The enterprising owner had set up a small stall to sell smoked and salted fish and fresh vegetables.

The man's wife’s cleaning of fish had drawn an admiring crowd of children, who watched intently as she skilfully scraped scales and gutted and beheaded.

There was a sudden yell that became a scream of fear as a girl who had been skipping along the bank fell into the water and went under. The swift stream dragged her away, before the fisherman or his wife could react.

“LOTHÍRIEL!” A voice cried out. Her frantic father, armoured in steel like all the Men, was only just stopped from leaping after her and to his death. 

Soldiers in armour struggled to free themselves and save the child as she swept along screaming and waving her arms, going under once, twice.

Gildor, further along the bank, was stripping his armour, yelling for another to come guard the king.

A flash of light that blotted out the sun swept along the river bank. Finrod pushed his crooked arms up, over his head, his abused shoulders cracking, and pushed off with broken legs, sailed through the air and dove cleanly into the great river. 

He emerged three dozen yards further and set a fast pace for the child, unerringly seeking her out in spite of his blind eyes, the water seemingly lit by his very presence.

“Eru, Manwë and Niënna,” Elendil swore. He looked at Gil-galad. “Can you do that?”

“I did not know he could do that,” Gil-galad protested. “And if I had, I certainly would not have thought that he could still do it.”

The girl had fallen silent as the strange being approached her, but she seemed utterly unafraid as he took hold of her and twisted on his back, with her on his chest, and with powerful thrusts of his legs headed back to the bank.

The entire army stood looking on, as he handed the child up to Galadriel, put his hands on the bank and smoothly lifted himself onto the shore. For a second, the proudly erect form seemed to be the great Elven lord of old, and then he seemed to crumple, the light that was felt more than seen disappearing, the spine crooked, the legs bent by many horrifying breaks.

Then he reached out and dried his hands on Galadriel's skirts, wet though they were already from the solemn child in her arms.

“Ingoldo! I told you ages ago to stop doing that!” 

************************************************************ 

The name of the place was Amon Lanc, Bare Hill. It had once been the palace and stronghold of the wood elves of Eryn Lasgalen, founded by Oropher and abandoned by him after the Fall of Númenor. Thick old-growth forest, remnants from the days of the Awakening of the Elves, surrounded it, but the hill itself, dark and stark volcanic, rose like a black, oval dome with a towering spire of rock piercing toward the silver moon slightly off from its centre.

The two men who approached it knew the winding and secret paths beneath the spreading boughs. Horses did not do well in the forest, and they had left theirs at the edge, to pick them up later. They climbed the hill, knowing that they were seen by its guardians even if they could not see them.

A hand on a certain place in the rock and ithildin shone under the moonlight. A door swung open and a man stepped out and bowed. “Her ladyship is waiting for you in the Grand Concourse, after you have bathed.”

“Of course she is,” Maedhros said dryly. “We have important messages, more important than bathing.”

The guard lifted an eyebrow and wrinkled his nose. “You are certain?”

“Yes, we will go see her now,” Maglor interrupted, before his brother could pummel the man into the rock. Maedhros had inherited a lot of their father’s temper.

They walked past the spluttering door guard and down a wide corridor, lined with arched bays. Since settling here, Her Ladyship had her people do a lot of work. The dark stone gleamed with inner light, the specks of mica and other minerals shining like stars on the firmament from the softly polished stone. 

They came out into the moonlight of the Great Concourse, a vast open space around the foot of the Spire, with large arches both natural and constructed connecting it to the dome. Some of the arches were large, with delicate traceries of carvings letting light through to the tunnels that ran inside them, others were thin, and carried walkways to the path that circled the Spire. The Concourse was mostly taken up by a restful garden, lawns and shrubs, with a few white stone pathways and many grassy ones.

Now there were trees, and many of them. Rowans and cherries, crab apple hazelnut and elder. 

One of the trees turned and looked at them. Its eyes were deep, like wells into time. 

Maglor bowed. “We are here to see the Lady. We mean you no harm, still.”

The tree looked at them. An arm came up to its face, a stump showing where another one had been.

“The destruction of your lands was less than we had feared. Many of your orchards were saved by the arrival of the Ents,” Maedhros said. “But the Men of the villages are scattered and hiding with the Númenoreans.”

She nodded, and settled back into her earlier pose.

Maglor and Maedhros walked on and reached another clearing, where a few years ago there had been a lawn. A tall, beautiful woman with long blonde hair like golden wheat braided down her back stood by a sapling thin tree, a beautiful cherry. 

“How is she?” Maedhros asked.

“Still frightened and unsure. It is a terrible thing for your first memories to be one of battle,” the woman replied. “I was not expecting you back yet.”

“They found him. Sauron had him,” Maglor said. “They could not recognise him, not even his Fäe, without getting truly close. I am sorry.”

The blonde woman turned around. Her eyes were deep blue, the blue of the autumn sky. “I have known he was alive. I have known he was injured so much he did not know his own name. Now I will go heal him.”

“On the up side, we think he might have defeated Sauron in single combat, chopped off his hand, thrown him into Orodruin and gotten away from there all under his own power,” Maedhros added. 

“And he knew Nerwen and Gil-galad,” Maglor finished. “But he is terribly injured. They are sending him to Valinor.”

The woman put a hand on the sapling. The young entgirl looked at her solemnly. 

“She thinks I should go.”

“You crossed here to find him. I would not delay your departure an hour,” Maglor said seriously.

The woman nodded. “Go tell the guard. We leave at dawn. And take a bath. At least I will not leave with the two of you smelling of rotting orc blood.”

****************************************************************   
It was Galadriel who sensed them first, though others soon picked them up, and sentries saw them as they neared the camp, though not nearly as soon as they should have.

The tallest of the three rode forward to greet Gil-galad and Elrond, who’d been nearest to the edge of the camp. 

The tallest threw back his hood, revealing long blond hair and a piercing gaze. “I am Glorfindel. We come in peace.”

Elrond blinked. “I was told that you died, slaying a Balrog.”

“I got better,” the blond replied as if this was hardly the first time he had been asked this. “It did not.”

“Who are your companions?” Gil-galad asked.

The shortest of the three, though not by much, threw back her hood. “I am Amarië, beloved of Ingoldo, daughter of Ingwë, King of the Vanyarin and High King of all the Elves. Take me to Ingoldo.”

Gil-galad, stunned, turned and led the way.

“That was unexpected,” Elendil said to Durin.

The dwarf looked up at the tallest of Men and smiled behind his beard. “You humans, you have no sense of romance.”

Elendil barked out a laugh. “It is the lack of beards. We need to work less hard at it since we can see instantly who are the women, my friend.”

*********************************************************

Crowds of silent men and elves watched as the three walked towards the river. There was laughter, childish laughter, coming from the riverbank. 

A group of children was playing tag with the shattered husk that had once been Ingoldo, now the High King of the Elves.

A small girl was laughing. Suddenly the broken elf turned. He whimpered. He made gestures with his hands as the tall woman approached, trying to ward her off, or make her retreat.

The small girl stepped protectively between him and the woman, and looked up at her. “You are not a mean lady. Why is he scared of you?”

The tall woman’s mouth, drawn down in pained sorrow, twitched. “He thinks I will love him less because he is no longer handsome.”

The girl frowned. “Why? Mummy and daddy do not love me less,” She looked over her shoulder at the cowering Finrod, then back at the woman. 

Amarië reached out and touched the scars that ran from one side of her face to the other and up and down, crossing her eyes, leaving them pale and white and sightless. “Yrch?”

The girl nodded solemnly. “Daddy killed them.”

“Very good,” Amarië said. “How do you know I am not a mean lady, child? You cannot see me.”

The girl giggled. “You are being silly.”

Numerous elves, including Galadriel, had to stifle laughter even as the Men watching gasped.

“I can feel you,” the girl said seriously. “When I fell into the river and Finrod saved me, he could not see me and had to feel me and I felt him too. I can feel you and him, together,” she finished solemnly. “And you knew that, so you were being silly.”

This time Amarië’s mouth twitched into a full smile. “My beloved has always had a knack for finding wonderful and amazing people. I am glad to see that has not changed… Lothíríel, is it not?” 

The girl nodded, unsurprised that this woman she had never met before would know her name. “Finrod calls me Nerwen the Second, but I do not know why.”

This caused actual laughter from various elves. The Men looked on, astonished. 

Amarië sent Galadriel an amused look, put a hand on Lothíriël’s shoulder and turned her slightly, walking beside her to where Finrod stood, bowed, rubbing his hands together and moaning.

“I am here beloved. I am here, and we will be together always.” 

***********************************************************

Gildor, Chief of the Guards of Gil-galad, former Captain of the Gate, stood looking at the third cowled form that had accompanied Amarië. 

“I suppose you are going to kill me?”

The man snorted and pushed back his hood. “Finrod told you to stay and protect his people. That Orodreth Angrodion was stupid enough to build that bridge is not your fault,” he shook his head. “I am rather amazed you survived that mess. I would rather face Sauron than Glaurung in all his might.”

“I did try to tell him, but he would not be swayed,” Gildor whispered. “Prince Gwindor, Princess Finduilas, myself, we all did, Edrahil”

“I know. Gwindor told me, so did Finduilas,” the elf put a hand on his shoulder. “And an additional army would have been of no use against Glaurung, so do not blame yourself for a battle that was impossible to win.”

“You are a lot more forgiving than I thought you would be, Edrahil,” Gildor smiled.

“I know what it means to fight a hopeless fight, Gildor. You did your best, and it was not enough. That was regrettably common in Beleriand, while we fought the Great Enemy. Happily this time thing went better.”

“Many still died,” Gildor lamented. “Elflings, barely able to draw a bow who had no business in battle.”

Edrahil snorted. “No one has business in battle. That is the whole point,” he gave Gildor a piercing look. “Nieliqi is looking forward to seeing you again. She told me to tell you she is not going to be waiting outside Mandos' Halls, so you had better not get yourself killed.”

Gildor winced and muttered. “If she does not geld me, I shall be lucky.” 

“If she did, what possible use would she have for you later?” the elf smiled.

Gildor blushed. “Our courtship was perfectly chaste!”

“Hence her looking forward to seeing you, no doubt,” Edrahil grinned. “I think she might have been quite appreciative of something a little less courteous and chaste.”

Gildor blushed even worse. Edrahil laughed. “So, each of us guards him part of the day?”

“Will you tell me how the Lady Amarië came to be here? And you?” Gildor asked.

“What, that is incumbent on sharing duty?” Edrahil frowned.

“No, the sharing of duty is what we have always done and is implicit in who we are. Coming back from the West, that is new,” Gildor pointed out. 

“It is the Lady's story. No doubt she will tell some of it,” Edrahil replied. “A time will come when she tells it. Come, let us go look at our lord.” 

Findor was sleeping in his bed in the tent set aside for him, and Amarië was by his side and Galadriel on the other one.

“Nerwen the Second?” Amarië asked, smiling slightly.

“She cannot see, but she is very brave. And she hits boys, apparently,” Galadriel sighed. “Celeborn was highly amused the first time he caught that Finrod thinks about her like that.”

Amarië's smile widened. “It is good to finally meet you. Finrod talked about you a great deal. So, did you really ask Lord Arōmēz if you could ride his pretty horsey?”

“Elbereth, I will never live it down,” Galadriel groaned. 

Amarië laughed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it’s been a while. Sorry about that. My primary publication forum is Twisting the Hellmouth and I forget to update my stories on other sites. Sorry about that! Second chapter up now, third and final next week. In the meanwhile you can find the full story here. (And two sequels/prequels too)   
> Many thanks to my excellent betas on this, Cordyfan and Samuraicatfan. Cordyfan for his patience when all he’s done is read the Lord of the Rings and Samuraicatfan for reminding me of all the Tolkien related things that I’ve forgotten.
> 
> Attentive readers (with very good memories) will have noticed that Glorfindel in the first chapter has been replaced by Erestor, who here has been made a Noldor who lived in Valinor and that Glorfindel is now a courtier of Amarië's. This was the original plan, then changed, and now changed back. Tolkien did this all the time. There are scholarly essays about the Problem of Glorfindel. The Istari have not arrived yet.   
> Edrahil was the leader of the companions of Finrod. Gildor was his Captain of the Gates at Nargothrond. Edrahil was also the elf receiving the Brothers at Amon Lanc.  
> Arōmēz is the Vanyarin name for Oromë, the Lord of the Hunt.


	3. Amarië

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note:  
> The third and final chapter in this story. The tale will be taken up in a sequels, made up of short vignettes that will fill the next oh, three thousand years or so of history, until we get to around the era of The Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit.  
> Then there will be somewhat longer stories until the end of the Ring War.  
> Many thanks to my patient beta’s, Cordyfan and Samuraicatfan. All mistakes are still mine.  
> 

**_Chapter 3 Amarië_ **

“It is strange to have you here,” Galadriel smiled at Amarië. “He never talked about you, but his fëa sang your name and once I realised what I was listening to, I feel I got to know you very well.”

“He was very fond of telling stories about you. I fear that I have an advantage over you there,” Amarië patted Finrod’s hand. She frowned. “How… Strange.”

“What is?” Galadriel asked. 

“Something I sensed. He will sleep now,” she leaned over and kissed the scar-furrowed brow. She rose. “Gildor and Edrahil will no doubt have divvied up the watch between them and I have no doubt many people have many questions.” 

“I think that is very true,” Galadriel said dryly. 

“I will gladly enlighten them as to all the things that my betrothed told me, about his little sister’s youthful adventures,” Amarië continued. 

“You and my brother are well matched,” Galadriel sniffed. “You both but exist to torment me.”

“Possibly. But you got to ride Nahar,” Amarië sighed enviously. “Alone and seated in front of Lord Arōmēz. No one else ever managed that.”

“You are jealous?” Galadriel smiled delightedly. “Tell me, have you ever ridden a Meara?”

Amarië nodded. “That I have. But to ride Nahar…” she sighed.

“Does Ingoldo know of this?” Galadriel asked.

“My love of horses? Yes,” Amarië smiled. “Also my love of archery, which he taught me, and that I can, and will, use a sword.”

“And he kept telling me I should get better at embroidery,” Galadriel murmured, with a glance back at where her brother lay sleeping. “Brothers.”

“Ah, that would be because I already love embroidery,” Amarië laughed. “Admittedly, I spent a great deal more of my time embroidering than I do fighting, even now. Finrod made me the most beautiful throws, and he is wonderful at tapestries.”

“He showed you that?” Galadriel shook her head at her own obtuseness. “Of course he did…” she eyed Amarië thoughtfully. “Hmmm…”

“Yes?” the older woman smiled.

“Gil-galad owns a small painting that came from Dior to Elrond, made by my brother, of a lady bathing in a pond.”

Amarië smiled. “That was a life study,” the smile changed into a smirk. “One of the other things he is very good at.”

Galadriel laughed. “I have no doubt, but there are some things that a sister does not need or want to know about her brother.”

Amarië looked thoughtful. “I will claim that painting, I think.”

“Gil-galad will send a rider to get it for you the moment he realises whom it depicts,” Galadriel said. “A bit of a prude, my grandnephew.”

Amarië laughed.

************************************************************** 

Elrond Eärendilion, or as he sometimes thought of himself, Elrond Maglorion, sat alone in his tent. Apparently his foster father, the only father he could really remember with his mind and not his Fëa, was serving the Lady Amarië, who was the daughter of the High King of all the Elves and had somehow managed to find her way to Arda. 

It was a sobering, exhilarating, heart-warming thought. He was sure that if Maglor was beyond redemption, Amarië would not have accepted him. Glorfindel would probably have gutted both brothers had he not seen some good in them. Then again, though Glorfindel was a great warrior, Maedhros was rumoured to have slain balrogs himself. The warrior in him contemplated what a battle, or even a practice session between the two would be like. Then he shook himself out of these thoughts and turned his mind back to what would happen now that the High Princess had revealed her presence. She was of the highest blood of the elves, even if her father still ruled in Valinor and her brothers stood first in line to inherit, should Ingwë the High King decide to abdicate. 

He looked up, disturbed when the cloth of his door was lifted. “I am not to be disturbed.”

He glared at the tall woman in the tent. A touch of lustrous red hair was visible underneath her hood. “And for the last time, I am not interested in dallying with women!”

The woman turned back her hood. Deep green eyes looked at him. There was a distinctly amused expression on her face. “Well, I am sure that we can find a nice man for you then.”

Elrond had not felt her presence until now. He knew that some of the Great in Valinor had learned to hide the strength of their Fëa, he had seen an example of it in Lord Finrod and he knew the Lady Galadriel habitually hid hers, as did the Lord Celeborn. He hid his own, though he had never seen the Trees, nor lived in Valinor, so his strength was but a shadow of what it might one day be. But the merest touch of this woman’s fëa was like fire and ice. 

He gasped. “Lady, I apologise, I thought you were another… another…”

“Harlot?” the lady suggested, sitting down gracefully and lifting an eyebrow at him.

Elrond blushed at yet another faux-pas, cursed himself for a mannerless clod, rose, took her cloak, folded it and placed it on a press, and with a trembling hand poured wine. 

“I beg your pardon again, my lady,” he said humbly. “But many women have been… insistent.”

The lady took the wine and laughed. “You poor boy. Do not worry yourself, I am well used to the fumbling words of young men. I have sons,” she wrinkled her nose. “Who are a great trial to me. Just wait until you have sons of your own.”

“I would need to be married for that, my lady,” Elrond wondered who the lady was, and her sons. She was no doubt a lady in waiting to Lady Amarië, but that did not explain what she was doing in his tent. 

“Not necessarily,” the lady shrugged. “Not even among our people is this always so.”

Elrond blushed. “My Lady!”

The lady laughed. “Lady Elbereth, but you are easy to embarrass. A few mortal women after you, a few remarks and you are entirely discombobulated. Well, maybe things would be better if you were married. I must admit I am surprised you are not yet.”

Elrond blinked through his fierce blush. “You are? It would? I… My lady, you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Of course I do. You are but a man,” she smiled at him, sipped the wine, then held the cup to admire it. “Celebrimbor’s work. His hand in engraving such things is finer than any I have ever seen.”

Elrond frowned. “I would think that a cup wrought by his grandfather would be greater?”

The lady shook her head. “Fëanor’s hand always holds pride. His chasings were bold, strong. They seek to distract from the form of the goblet, while the goblet seeks to diminish the engravings. That was always my husband’s problem, he was so focused on what he was doing now, that he forgot about the whole, and how it should be. He cannot see the grand perspective for his attention to detail. My grandson has surpassed him in that. I think my other grandson has as well, even if you do not do much smithcrafting, I believe?”

Elrond’s mouth fell open and his eyes were wide. 

The lady reached out and closed his mouth with an audible click. “I do not need to see the condition of your tonsils, dear grandson.”

Elrond blushed more deeply. “Are you truly..?”

“I am Nerdanel. I decided that since my husband and sons had managed to destroy much in their pride and anger, I would come here and see if I could help heal some of what they damaged,” the lady spoke quietly. 

Elrond looked at her, running his fingertips over the engraving in his cup, part of the set that Celebrimbor had given him, ‘A cousin gift’.

“A pity you cannot heal the ills of but this war, Lady.”

“My sons, fools and idiots though they are, have not been idle. Unlike their nephew, they knew Sauron when they saw him and had laid plans for his return,” Nerdanel sipped more wine. “No doubt Amarië will tell you exactly what they did. But… I am very proud of them.”

Elrond perked up. “Will you not tell me, lady?”

“Elrond,” the lady said firmly. “Curb your curiosity. I am not here to tell you things you will hear from others. I am here to meet you, and to ask why you have not married yet.”

Elrond had taken a sip to hide his disappointment and the slight flush at the mild reprimand. Regrettably, that meant he spewed it out of his mouth when his grandmother finished speaking and only a very swift movement of her legs onto the stool prevented Nerdanel from having her dress spattered. 

She smiled. “You are a bit old to spit on your grandmother, dear. Celebrimbor did enough of it, I admit, but really.”

“Daer-Naneth!” Elrond whined, immediately shocked at his own reaction and the fact the word had come so easily from his mouth.

The lady froze as she put her feet back on the ground, and then she smiled. “Thank you. Maybe, knowing you think of me like that will make it easier for me to bear that I can see you very little.”

“Why not?” Elrond asked.

“The Valar have certain plans. I am part of them, and yet in certain things I must stand apart. Occasionally, I think the Lord Manwë is a bit too fond of elaborate plans, when a simple one could do. I think that Lady Elbereth agrees with me on occasion.”

Elrond filed that piece of information away for further thought. “Will I never see you again?” 

“Certain conditions have to be met, and I cannot tell you what they are,” Nerdanel smiled sadly. “I will leave the camp again, soon. I will probably not see much of you, or at least not as much as I would like. But I did want to see you, and the Ladies insisted that I could.”

“The Ladies?” Elrond asked.

“That is Amarië’s tale,” Nerdanel stood. 

So did Elrond. “Daer-naneth? Why did you think I would be married?”

Nerdanel sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if Finrod is the only male who knows his own heart. Because, dear grandson, your Fëa is singing. Now it is up to you to realise who it is singing with.”

She put a hand to his cheek, rose very slightly on her toes and kissed the other one, turned and put her cloak back on, raising the hood. 

“One more question? My guards?” Elrond asked, still digesting her words. “How did you get past them?”

“Oh, I told them you had sent for me. They were quite pleased, though no doubt they will be disappointed at how fast you were finished,” she answered with an evil smirk. She let the folds of the tent door fall behind her, and left her grandson sputtering with embarrassment. 

****************************************************************

The table was long and lined with curious men and women. Amarië sat in the centre of one of the long sides, Glorfindel beside her.

“What are your plans, My Lady?” Gil-galad asked. 

“I was sent here to find and help Ingoldo. I will do so,” Amarië replied. “If it turns out that there is no other option, we will go to Valinor. But I know that Ingoldo would not wish to leave these lands he loved, leave his friends,” she inclined her head towards the Dwarves and the Men at the table.

“My Lady,” Durin spoke up. “We would not have him suffer for us.”

Amarië smiled. “Thank you. But he would not wish to give up, and in Valinor there are no dwarves to visit and to forge weapons and jewels with, or to discuss masonry and carving with. Or to carouse with,” she finished.

Durin laughed. “I bend to your superior knowledge, My Lady. But I am grateful to hear that the knowledge of our friendship passed even onto the West.”

Amarië smiled sadly. “Many have exited the Halls of Mandos. And you know Elves, we love to talk.”

Durin laughed again.

Amarië looked around the table. “Now, I am sure that you are all very curious as to how I got here. That is a tale that can wait, at least a little while. Now that I am known to you, there are messages that I bear, and messages that must be sent.”

Gil-galad inclined his head. “Of course. What messages to whom?”

“First, to Fangorn. The Lady Fimbrethil and most of her people are safe in my domains, and eager to return to the Gardens, or what is left of them,” Amarië smiled at the excited murmurings.

“Their daughter, Willowwand, has a great desire to see her father.”

“The Entwives are safe and an Enting is born!” Celeborn cried out joyously. “That calls for great celebration, cousins!” 

Amroth and Thranduil, who had been sitting silent and morose at the table, looked up, eyes shining. “Indeed it does!”

“Ah, yes,” Amarië coughed. “Before I continue, I have to state that my central domains are in and around Amon Lanc. I beg pardon from the lords here for settling in their lands. However, it may please them to hear that many who have been thought lost to them in the years since Sauron declared himself are safe within my borders. I have brought both lists and letters and all will soon re-join their people.”

“How could we not have noticed their presence? And yours?” Thranduil frowned. “And those lists, are those the papers Lord Glorfindel gave us?”

Amarië reached under the table. There was a click of a metal clasp being undone. She placed a belt on the table, wrought entirely of mithril, with flowers of emeralds and berries of rubies. “This was crafted for me in Valinor by the Lord Aulë aided by Finarfin Finwënion and many others. It was filled with the power of the Lady Melian and many others who wished me well. I call it the Girdle of Melian, and like that great Lady’s true and living Girdle, it kept my home hidden and safe for many yéni.”

Thranduil inclined his head. “A beauteous and wondrous thing, milady.” 

“Wondrous indeed,” Gil-galad agreed. 

“I was granted many gifts by the Valar,” Amarië said. “But none as wondrous as the ability to help those in need here,” she finished as she replaced the belt. 

Thranduil took the scroll that Glorfindel had given him and that he had barely glanced at from his belt and looked at it anew. “I thought this but a well-written list of our early losses,” he whispered. “But there are many hundreds of my people on here. My sister…”

Everyone at the table expressed their appreciation of the survival of the Princess Milurhî, though Amarië’s face there was a swift, secretive smile that was amused and fond.

He held up another list, which had fallen from the other. “But what is this one, My Lady, I do not know the names?”

“You did not think that there would be no marriages and children born within the Girdle of Melian, did you, Thranduil Oropherion?” Glorfindel grinned.

Thranduil blinked. “But… there are over a hundred!”

“A hundred and twenty-six. Hence the list. I am sure you will need some time to find places to house that many elflings and their parents,” Amarië smiled. “And one pregnancy.”

Thranduil held both scrolls in trembling hands. “Lady, if I had to house them in my own chambers, I would most gladly do so.”

Amroth, who had been despondent and disconsolate, had ripped out his own scroll again and was reading it hungrily. He looked up, his eyes shining. “I thank you, My Lady, for my people.”

“How many elflings, my cousin?” Celeborn asked eagerly.

“A hundred and twenty-five when I left,” Amarië said. 

Thranduil gave Amroth a mock superior look. 

“And three pregnancies,” Amarië added.

Amroth smirked at his fellow Sindar king.

Gil-galad had his own list out. He was looking at it in disbelief. “The very reason I thought this was a list of our losses too, right at the top.”

“My beloved’s cousins can be very effective when they put their minds to it. And of course, he is their nephew,” Amarië smiled. “That added some incentive.”

Galadriel looked up in disbelief from the list that Amroth had handed her and Celeborn, to see the names of many of their people they had loved and thought lost. “Celebrimbor?”

“He is still not quite recovered from his tortures, but eager to see you,” Amarië told her.

“Too eager, no doubt,” Celeborn murmured.

Amarië laughed. “Oh, I think he has found another lady to hold his attention. If you check the names of the parents of the list of children, Thranduil?”

The king of Eryn Galen swiftly did so, finding it in a fold behind the main list. “My sister? Twins?” He looked up, slightly bewildered. “Where will they settle?”

“Celebrimbor has expressed that he would quite like to see your father's… your realm,” Amarië faltered. “I am sorry that your father can not see his grandchildren, or know that his daughter was safe all these yeni.”

“He will see them beyond the sea,” Thranduil smiled. “My mother, however, will be very pleased.”

***************************************************************

Elrond Peredhil, Protector of Imladris, High Herald of the High King, almost growled as he realised who was riding into the camp accompanied by a guard of her King’s finest Border-Wardens. He had not seen her in more than four yéni, and before that, had done his utmost to keep his time with her as brief as possible.

“My Lady Celebrian. I was not expecting you,” he bowed. “I think no-one is.”

“My parents, Lord Elrond,” Celebrian snapped. “And my cousins, the Kings of Lorién and the High King of the Noldor and your Lord, I believe. I am here to see my uncle.”

Elrond bowed again. “Of course, my lady.” Inwardly he seethed, that she came to gawk at the great Ingoldo, as if he was some statue carved to be admired, and not a worthy of rest and privacy.

He looked up and met her eyes, trying to express his anger, met them for the first time in half an age. 

Their force struck him between the eyes and he staggered. Celebrian paled and leaned against her horse.

Elrond’s eyes widened, he bowed again and fled.

Celebrian thumped her saddle with a small fist. “That man! All these years and he sleeps with some… HARLOT!”

**************************************************************

Celebrian, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn, was braiding hair. The hair was black as the unstarred sky and hung quite low on the back of the chattering little girl it belonged to. 

Her mother was doing the other braid, while the girl chattered at Celebrian’s uncle. Celebrian had hoped to talk about architecture, construction and even a little smithing. Finrod had made the crown of Nargothrond after all, and her cousin had worn that with pride, even if he was now suddenly his great-uncle’s regent and not a King anymore.

But he was barely able to speak at all, and seemed unable to concentrate, drawing in the sand beside him with his single finger stump. 

Celebrian wondered if her questions had hurt him, bringing back memories, or if the problem was that long years of torture had made him forget.

So she had gone to braiding hair and answering the child’s questions.

Lothíriel was a strange girl. In the long years since the fall of Beleriand, Celebrian had learned that more than one Eldar had made the Choice of Lúthien, though without the quests and anguish surrounding it. 

Little Lothíriel was a descendant of such a union, as was her father, who was the third son of the Prince of Belfalas, recently affirmed as such by Elendil. 

It was at least six or seven generations of Men ago that this union had occurred, well before the founding of the Kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor, and in her father it seemed that the blood of the First Born was thin.

In Lothíriel, it seemed to run as strong as in any elleth. Her mother was fascinated. This did not happen often.

“He has finished his drawing,” Lothíriel told her, and then sailed back into the adventures of her dolls, who apparently had love lives as intricate as Beren and Lúthien and adventures that would make those two pale.

Celebrian looked at her uncle, and gasped. He had drawn for her the Secret Rooms of Nargothrond, complete with what looked like writing in what she thought was High Khuzdul. 

She looked up at her mother, her eyes shining. Galadriel looked back, and in her eyes too, Celebrian saw the suspicion of tears.

In the distance, Elrond, the High Herald, looked on with a troubled visage.

Durin, King and Lord of Khazad-dum plumped down into the sand beside the little girl. She handed him a doll, which he accepted with aplomb. It was a rather squat looking figure, and the woollen hair, sewn onto a leather covering seemed to have fallen to the chin when the seams had torn, after which the owner had managed to scrawl uneven eyes and mouth in ink on the wooden head.

“What is her name?” He asked solemnly. 

“Kadis. She is a dwarven lady. I asked Ingoldo and he told me that Kadis was a lady from Belegost, who was very good at designing chimney flues and wall-hangings. And was the wife of Axa-, Azan-”

“Azaghâl,” Durin finished for her.

Lothíriel nodded solemnly. “He hurt a big dragon, but did not slay it. Kadis ruled until her grandson was old enough.”

Durin smiled, holding the doll gently. “A good name. A good name.”

Lothíriel looked around, as if checking something, even though her blind eyes could not see, then beckoned the dwarf king closer. “Miss Celebrian and Lady Galadriel cannot read what he wrote, because it is in your tongue. They are very annoyed,” she whispered loud enough that Durin’s sons, twenty feet away could hear her clearly. “Only you must not say they are very annoyed, because elven ladies do not get very annoyed.”

Durin suppressed a big smile as she saw the expressions on the faces of Galadriel and Celebrian, half fond and half ‘No we are not annoyed, we are elven ladies’. “Shall I tell you a secret, little one? Dwarven ladies do not get annoyed either.”

Lothíriel nodded wisely. “Ingoldo says they get angry, and throw axes.”

Durin laughed. “Ah, he knows his women well, does Felagund. Now show us what he wrote, little one.”

The sons of Durin, princes though they were, were carefully copying the words written in the sand, occasionally asking for clarification from the writer in soft voices. They had brought paper and ink, and dipping his stump in the ink, in rough and large characters, Finrod Felagund wrote.

Durin himself, after watching for a few minutes, had left and was sitting on a log, carving, and talking to Lothíriel, while Galadriel and Celebrian were once again braiding the girl’s hair.

“I do not see how she can get it in a tangle so swiftly,” Celebrian shook her head.

Lothíriel’s mother, a tall and imposing woman called Indis, who in ordinary company would have dominated most conversations, opened her mouth, then closed it.

“It is the nature of children,” Galadriel smiled. “Especially those who play. I remember chasing you through the trees with a braid-band, and a pair of shoes.”

Indis grinned. “I am most pleased to hear that some things are the same through all species. Though if I may be so bold as to ask…?”

Galadriel nodded.

“I am surprised that the lady Amarië is not with the Lord Finrod.”

“She does not need to be with him in body for him to know she is there, and there are many things that need to be done, things a ruler must do, that Ingoldo would not want to wait just for him,” Galadriel smiled. “His heart chose well.”

“Better than mine,” Celebrian muttered, glaring at the figure on the low hill, watching them.

“Another thing that seems the same between all races,” Indis smiled. “My Galador, I almost had to club him before he realised he loved me.”

“I did that with Aramir and you said that was not ladylike, mother,” Lothíriel complained.

“That is because I only almost did it, and Aramir had to keep to his bed for two days,” her mother pointed out.

Durin laughed and put away his knife, looking over his carving. “Yes. That should work. Excuse me, ladies.”

He sauntered back to where his sons were and coughed. “Lord Felagund?”

The sightless eyes had already turned to him, a most disconcerting feeling. 

“I made something for you, easier to write with than… your finger?” Durin said hesitantly.

Ingoldo held his hand out. With gentle fingers Durin placed a ring of wood, with a thin reed set into it around the top of the single stump. “It will be good for Khuzdul, though it may be harder to write the elven scripts.”

The elven lord nodded solemnly, dipped the reed into the ink and wrote tentatively onto the paper. The letters were far clearer and he quickly wrote more.

Durin’s eyes widened. “My lord… Felagund. It would be my honour,” he choked out.

A toothless, almost gumless smile was his answer.

Lothíriel nodded sagely. “Ingoldo made a new dwarven friend.”

Galadriel smiled. “Good. He always enjoyed the carousing.”

************************************************************** 

Elrond sat at in his tent. He knew that Celebrian had been taken to meet her uncle almost immediately, and had found in him a vast fount of knowledge of the arts of the Eldar of the First Age. But he had not joined in the discussions that followed. Where previously he had only entered it when the days travel and discussion were over, and left it early so it could be taken down for their travels, now he spent all his days in it, it seemed. As one of the commanders of the host, it was set up every night, but for the past five days, ever since the arrival of Amarië, they had been staying in one place, debating what they would do. It had been three days since _she_ joined them, warned of her uncle’s return by message riders, of the wondrous survival of many by the messengers and by the returning armies of Lorién and the passing host of Eryn Galen. More than three fourths of the armies of the woodland realms had survived, and though some had stayed to honour Finrod, and some due to injuries now being treated by many healers, they would all eventually go home.

The victory at a cost so much lighter than they had all feared and expected, the fall of Sauron, even tempered with the horrors that had been perpetrated against Finrod, it was a message to gladden any heart. Maybe that was what had changed. 

The flap of the tent opened and Gil-galad entered. “Elrond.”

Elrond rose. “Sire?”

“You have not spoken for days and your mind is closed to all. We are worried and would know if what is troubling you needs to be shared,” Gil-galad sat down.

Elrond winced. “My Lord… I was told that my Fëa was singing, and I found that is so and… my love surprised me.”

“Who told you?” Gil-galad asked.

“My grandmother, the Lady Nerdanel. She came to see me,” Elrond said gloomily. 

“Your grandmother?” Gil-galad sounded beyond astounded. “She is here?”

“She came with the lady Amarië, but she is bound by some oath not to oft meet or see me,” Elrond leaned his head on his hands. “How long has my heart been singing? How could I have missed it?”

“Long enough that you could barely remember it being anything else,” Gil-galad said absently. “If you will excuse me, I shall leave you to your thoughts.”

He hastened from the tent and to his aunt’s.

Inside, he found his great aunt and uncle watching his cousin in the sort of cold rage only her beloved could engender in her. “That dog in heat scurvy scoundrel!”

“Yes dear. I agree that he seems to be just about the most obtuse man I have ever met or even heard about,” Galadriel soothed.

“I am disappointed that he turned to… such relief,” Celeborn said his face troubled.

“It was his grandmother, Nerdanel. To tell him that his heart was singing and to do something about it,” Gil-galad spoke up. 

Galadriel laughed. “Well finally! Someone who knew and who was not sworn to silence! That was not one of your better ideas, dear daughter.”

Celebrian sat down. “Oh. He did not… But… the guards?”

“Aunt Nerdanel has a strange sense of humour, Celebrian,” Galadriel explained. “I assume she came with Amarië?”

“She did,” Gil-galad said. “Apparently she lies under a vow or stricture not to interfere in her grandson’s life. The Valar must have their reasons,” he finished. “She told him to listen to his heart. He did. Now he is in his tent, gibbering and knows not what to do.”

Celebrian huffed and crossed her arms. “Could not the Valar have allowed her to interfere by dragging him to me by his ears?”

********************************************************* 

Amarië sat by her betrothed, holding his shattered hand and letting the power of her fëa bolster his. But the strange thing was, that no matter how damaged his hröa, his indomitable soul was exactly that, indomitable, powerful.

She was learning what had happened to him. It was not a story she wished to know in its entirety, but she needed to know enough of it, to understand the man he had become. For she knew he would be a man again. The Ladies must have foreseen his condition. She herself had known it would be bad. They had planned. They had planned well.

Lothíriel skipped up, her blind eyes no hindrance. “Hullo.”

“Hello, Little Flower Girl,” Amarië greeted her.

“Mummy is making honey cakes, and I thought that you and Ingoldo might like some,” the girl smiled. “You can have mine.”

“And by making that offer, you know your mother will be so pleased that she will make more?” Amarié said with a laugh.

Lothíriel grinned a gap-toothed grin. 

*********************************************************** 

Elrond was hoping not to meet anyone in the little wood. For the past two days, he had been going here, cajoling, nudging, pleading, and finally he had been successful. But there was not much to do around the camp, so he should not have been surprised to find his labours disturbed. 

The fact that they were disturbed by a grey-bearded Dwarven king, the High King, the High King’s Regent, his betrothed and a little girl with blind eyes should not have been entirely unexpected. 

Lothíriel was running through his strawberry patch, picking the delectable fruits and sharing them with the solemn adults. Finrod had a slate on his lap, and the wooden ring on his stump held a slate stylus.

Durin shook his head. “Amazing. To see drawings of Nogrod and Belegost, drawn by someone who was there…”

“Celebrian is utterly delighted with the stress calculations and the notes which wall had carried which decoration, by whom. I never realised that so much work in Nargothrond and Belegost and Nogrod was done by Dwarves and Elves together,” Gil-galad sighed. “Those thrice-damned Silmarils. Their splendour is too great for any not of the Ainur.”

“Morgoth was seduced by them too,” Amarië said softly. “Maybe it would be good to forget all the horrors perpetrated for them. Such evil, such foolishness, all for three stones, no matter how beautiful.”

Durin looked at Gil-galad. “Celebrimbor once said the same, I heard from my father, who had it from his. Not worth the smile of a child.”

Gil-galad touched his great-uncle’s shoulder. “I was a small child in Nargothrond when uncle told that to Maedhros and Maglor,” he hesitated. “We have long been friends, you and I, Durin of the house of Durin. Will you help me make peace between elves and dwarves, to finally put to rest the old shadows?”

Durin gave him a look. “Will you help me hunt down the evils in the mountains, maybe even unto Mount Gundabad?”

“You mean kill orcs and other evil servants of Sauron and Morgoth?” Gil-galad snorted. “Elbereth, gladly!”

“Then yes, I think I convince my stubborn cousins,” Durin smiled. “Dwarf-friend.”

Gil-galad laughed. “Hear that, uncle? You are not the only one anymore.”

The High King’s mouth quirked. Then he held out his slate, on which he had been scratching, and gravely accepted Lothíriel putting a strawberry in his mouth. 

“This,” Durin choked out. “Mahal...”

“What is it?” Gil-galad asked, looking at the slate that the Dwarven King obligingly turned. “A hammer and seven stones?”

“A monument once stood where the Seven Fathers were created and given life and will by Eru,” Durin traced the lines with one finger. “It was lost… No dwarf living knows the exact place…”

Gil-galad was silent for a moment, then spoke. “It was destroyed when the Ered Luin were shattered. Dolmed still stands, my friend. Maybe, once uncle feels somewhat better, he can take us there?”

“How many dwarf kings were your friends, Finrod?” Amarië asked.

“All, my lady,” Durin smiled. “All.”

Elrond turned, feeling that he had already seen too much. He heard the sound of small feet behind him. Looking around, he saw Lothíriel running behind him, carrying a small grass bag of strawberries. 

“You only need one,” she told him solemnly as she handed him the bag. “You only ever needed one.”

************************************************************ 

Elrond Ëarendilion made his way to the makeshift workspace set up for Celebrian in a ramshackle hut overlooking the river, some way from the main encampment. It smelled of fish, but she did not seem to mind, as she took the time that the Army rested to transcribe her Uncle’s words. Words that were written in High Khuzdul, a language known only to the dwarves and their dearest friends. 

Words that included descriptions of wonders long gone, that no-one but the sightless elf had memories of.

Wonders that his niece was determined to describe, so others would know them on this side of the Sea.

“My Lady?” he said softly.

Celebrian had no doubt heard him come in, felt his approach. She looked over his shoulder. “High Herald.”

“My Lady, I grew some strawberries. I thought we might share them, even though those from your mother’s garden would have been finer.”

He took one and very gently sucked it off its crown into his mouth. “I believe, I owe you the taste and the smell of one?”

Celebrian smiled. For the first time, Elrond realised it was not like the sun coming up, but like the Trees shining forth on Valinor for the first time.

**************************************************************

Elrond, High Herald, adjusted his collar. It was the highest collar he had. He needed it. His neck had been… much favoured… by his lady.

That was not necessarily something he wanted her parents to know, before he had gotten their permission to marry their daughter.

He certainly did not want them to know about the even greater favours she had bestowed upon him, even though his face flushed at the memory.

‘The only person in the world who can affect me so, whether in anger or in love’, he thought wryly. He took a deep breath and walked towards the tent of the Lord and Lady.

The guard held the flap open for him and he entered, head held high, hoping that his collar would stay high enough to hide the traces of their passion. He had seen Celebrian walk through the camp with a shawl this morning.

“My Lord Celeborn, My Lady Galadriel…” he swallowed. 

The lady was studying the intricate metalwork on a dwarven-crafted sword. The lord was gently oiling the shaft of his great grey bow. Both looked up at the same time.

“Elrond Eärendilion,” Galadriel said softly. “We have been wanting to talk to you.”

Elrond gulped. “My lady… I have… I cannot think excuse my behaviour.”

“You most certainly cannot!” Galadriel said tartly. “Two ages of the world she has been waiting for you to understand your heart!”

Celeborn just oiled his bow, glaring.

Elrond blinked. “Ummm… This is not about…”

“The very noticeable discovery of your joy in each other? If you had wished to hide that, you would need far thicker walls than that shack of our daughter’s,” Galadriel sniffed.

“Of stone,” Celeborn added dryly. “This is about the fact that if you ever hurt her again by your inattention to your own self, and hers, your least worry will be this bow’s _arrows_.” 

He lifted an eyebrow, running his hand along the length of the bow from end to end.

Elrond gulped. “Yes. My Lord.”

“I assume you are here to ask for her hand?” Galadriel said coolly.

“Which seems redundant since he already availed himself of it and much more,” Celeborn growled. 

Elrond pushed his shoulders back. “I am. But I will tell you, that even if you refuse us, we will find a way.”

“It seems it is in the blood,” Celeborn said dryly. “We agree. Now go and see our daughter, she was so jittery this morning she ate salt with her porridge…” his eyes widened. He looked at Galadriel, who was also wide-eyed.

“We will go see our daughter,” Galadriel swept out of the tent, followed by her husband, and a very confused Elrond.

Celebrian was feeling dreamy. Part of this was due to her vigorous exercise of the day before. Part of it was due to the fact that finally the song of her heart was complete, but the final part she was not sure about.

She was tidying her shack, which had gotten considerably disarranged by the exercise. Her slope, hastily put together by some Gondorian craftsmen, had not been created with such a vigorous workload in mind. It would require repairs. So would at least one wall. She was wondering how to explain the need for them when she felt her parents approaching, and Elrond. 

The door flew open before she could compose herself. Her mother was at her side and a hand gentle upon her stomach. 

Celebrian’s eyes widened. Suddenly she realised what the third component of her happiness was. And in her mother’s eyes, she saw nothing but joy.

*************************************************************

“So. A wedding,” Elendil grinned at Gil-galad. “Your cousin’s wedding.”

“Apparently my High Herald has finally realised his heart was given long ago. A pity he did not have the patience to wait a while longer with other things, after making the lady wait nigh two ages,” Gil-galad glared at Elrond, who flushed, though he did not look all that embarrassed or displeased. 

“I have never been to an elven wedding,” Elendil mused. “Would we be invited?”

“Since it will take place within a moon, I think the chances are very great,” Gil-galad growled. “It will occur within a moon, will it not, Herald?”

“It will be my great pleasure,” Elrond said with a perfectly straight face.

“Are Dwarves invited to this party too?” Durin asked, settling at the table with a mug of ale.

“I think my lady would have words with me if they were not, your majesty,” Elrond said gravely.

“And he does not want to have words,” Durin grinned at Elendil. “When actions are much more to his liking.”

Gil-galad glared.

This time Elrond did look embarrassed.

**************************************************************

Elrond had not spent much time with his King. To him, he was not just a legend. He was the reason he was alive, had even been born. Without the actions of Finrod Felagund, who had laid down the kingship of Nargothrond to fulfil a vow and to help two lovers, there would have been no Dior, no Elwing, no Elrond and Elros. He wondered what his uncles, Elúred and Elúrin and twins like him and his brother, would have been like. If Maedhros had found them and they had not been left to starve in in the wilds. To meet him, to face what had been done to him, each time wrung Elrond’s heart. Only now, that his heart was whole, did he have the true strength. 

To this man, he owed his life, as much as he owed it to Maglor. 

“Uncle? This is Elrond, Lúthien’s great-grandson. We are to be married,” Celebrian said softly. 

The king looked at them solemnly, the cavernous eye sockets seeming to peer into their very souls. Then he smiled. 

Celebrian gasped as Elrond looked in disbelief. The toothless gums were showing the traces of strong white teeth, poking through healthy pink flesh.

***************************************************************

Amarië was looking at the sightless child who was playing in the mud of the river flats with several other children and one High King. There was a white scar that ran horizontally over both her eyes, but there were vertical slashes too, that had disfigured the high, intelligent brows, the delicate eyebrows and the cheeks and the eyelids, rendering what would have been a spectacular beauty into something more frightening than beautiful, making the child look like she was weeping tears of white fire.

A dress rustled and Galadriel sat next to her. “Congratulations,” Amarië said with a smile.

“It took him long enough that I was actually despairing,” Galadriel admitted.

“A young man fond of his duty, his books and the wisdom of his elders and looking back too much to see the future or the present on occasions. Celebrian will keep his mind more firmly in the here and now,” Amarië laughed.

“Is it true?” Galadriel asked after some comfortable silence.

“Yes. He seems to be healing. But it will take a long, long time.”

“Happily we live a long, long time,” Galadriel sighed. “But how?”

Amarië’s eyes flicked to the play in the mud and smiled as the two blind ones managed to land two solid slaps of mud on two rather haughty boys.

“Celebrimbor said something. Well, he says a great deal, much of it of no import, and with great many words, where one would suffice.”

“Never stops talking,” Galadriel agreed with a smile.

“He said that he learned the basics of ring-crafting before Sauron came to him, from his grandfather. But that of all of them, only Finrod had truly studied the matter.”

Galadriel winced. “I feared such. No ring, not even an elven one, would last as long as the Ring of Barahir without Power. Sauron wrested the knowledge from my brother’s mind.”

“I know you bear one of the Three. I can feel the others with Cirdan and Gil-galad. Reach out with it to Finrod,” Amarië instructed.

Galadriel closed her eyes. She had not done much with her Ring. Nenya was bound to the Ring forged by Sauron and she had feared that her fëa would be invaded by his will. But she could feel power around Amarië. The Girdle, her necklace, a ring around her finger, a bracelet, all filled with power, granted by Various Ainur. She felt the Rings of Fire and Air, Narya and Vilya.

And her brother. She gasped. “Earth?”

Amarië nodded. “Celebrimbor said he could not forge a ring of Earth. He did not know why. But I think that is the reason. In the long years since his escape, or maybe even while a prisoner, Finrod crafted a Ring of Power, untouched by the Dark. An anchor to which to bind his fëa.”

“And it is giving him back his hröa,” Galadriel finished as the sun sparked on the rusty band on Finrod’s hand.


End file.
